


Tame

by illwick



Series: Unwind [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Bondage, Bottom!Sherlock, Breathplay, Dom!John, Internalized Homophobia, Japanese Rope Bondage, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Military Kink, Minor Original Character(s), Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Switching, Temperature Play, Threesome (fantasized), Topping from the Bottom, Vibrators, Violent Sex, Virginity Kink, Wax Play, bottom!John, sub!Sherlock, top!John, top!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-02 21:11:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 53,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16312787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: John puts Sherlock to the test.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Quick word of warning: The first chapter of this installment involves John masturbating to a fantasy that involves a woman. If you’ve been reading this series, you’re aware that I write John as heterosexual with the exception of Sherlock, and as such, when he fantasises about anyone who is not Sherlock, that individual is always female. Sherlock is well aware of this, and John does not hide or sugar-coat this fact.
> 
> That said, if reading about John’s fluid sexuality, John getting it on with ladies, or John getting it on with anyone not Sherlock squicks you out, go ahead and skip to the next chapter: you’re just missing a tiny bit of plot exposition and a whole lot o’ porn.
> 
> Also: The OFC (and related websites) mentioned in this chapter are all figments of my imagination. Any resemblance to real-life individuals are purely coincidental.

John gives his half-hard shaft a tentative stroke through the well-worn fabric of his pajamas. Settling back against the armrest of the sofa in the sitting room and stretching out his legs, he takes stock of his supplies: laptop, lube, box of tissues, and a tepid cup of tea (not that the tea was part of the ritual, of course, merely a pleasant bonus should he find himself in need of some post-coital refreshment). He had everything he needed at hand… as it were. He issues a contented hum, reveling in the luxurious indulgence of his bachelor lifestyle.

Sherlock had taken Rosie to his parents’ country house for the weekend. They’d been badgering him to do so for weeks, but John’s Friday shift had the surgery had prevented them from making the journey together, and eventually Sherlock had capitulated and announced he was taking Rosie himself. John had been rather surprised at Sherlock’s willingness to engage in any type of family function without John making thinly-veiled threats or bribing him with elaborate sexual favours, so he’d been initially been skeptical of Sherlock’s motives.

But it seemed that Sherlock’s motives were exactly as they seemed: he wanted to get his mother off his back, and the easiest way to do that was to show up on her doorstep and hand over her beloved granddaughter to her doting care. 

It wasn’t as if it was entirely altruistic, either; John strongly suspected that with Rosie taken care of and John indisposed back in London, the situation would present Sherlock with the opportunity to spend some time alone with his thoughts. These days, he had relatively little time to indulge in ‘delicate brain work’ amidst the chaos of their daily life, and John had noticed he’d packed several of the trademark leather-bound notebooks he kept on hand for jotting down potential experiments or noting scientific observations. He clearly had self-indulgent weekend plans of his own.

In his own defense, John’s behaviour hadn’t been _entirely_ hedonistic in Sherlock’s absence. Friday night he’d met up with Greg for some long-overdue pints, and he’d spent all day Saturday organising the flat and working on small projects for the renovations they were undertaking in 221C. While they’d hired a contractor to take on a majority of the improvements, there were a few bits and bobs that he felt competent enough to tackle himself.

The renovations to 221C were coming along quite nicely, all things considered. After tearing up the carpet and the mold-rotted subfloor, they’d had sealed concrete poured to resist the damp. Initially the removal of the wallpaper had appeared to be a disaster when chunks of plaster kept coming off with each strip, but in a delightful turn-up, it had revealed that behind the fetid plaster was original brick, still in excellent condition. They’d torn away the remainder of the plaster to reveal the lot of it, and the results were shockingly aesthetically pleasing; John internally thanks his lucky stars that Mrs. H hadn’t taken the initiative to do the renovations herself years ago; otherwise, she’d have probably been able to let the space for double what they were currently paying.

Sherlock was eagerly awaiting the arrival of his laboratory-grade fridge and freezer, and next week the plumbers were due to complete the installation of a functional sink. Once all that was in place, they could move Sherlock’s equipment out of their kitchen and into its new, permanent home. John wasn’t sure who was more excited; Sherlock, for the opportunity to work on his experiments without John’s constant pestering to keep things safe and tidy, or John, for the opportunity to live in a household in which his food did not share storage space with cadavers.

John tries to push the logistics to the back of his mind. After all, it was Saturday night: he’d finished his chores, caught up on emails, hit the gym, made himself a sensible dinner, and now… now it was time to indulge a bit.

He flips open his laptop and types in the address of a very familiar page. Mentally crossing his fingers, he waits as it loads. As soon as it does, a smile spreads across his face: an update! Perfect.

He clicks on the latest video.

On screen, a buxom blonde in a skin-tight corset that accentuates her generous cleavage reclines casually on an opulent loveseat. Her shapely legs are complimented by a pair of stockings with an elaborate geometric pattern worked into the lace, and on her feet are sky-high black heels. Her face is youthful but her expression somehow sage, and she looks completely relaxed. The scene is reassuringly familiar, and John smiles to himself, slowly snaking his hand beneath the waistband of his pajamas to close around his shaft, which is hardening rapidly in Pavlovian response.

“Hello, naughty boys and girls! Madame La Roux here. For all you first-timers, welcome to my channel! And for all you returning viewers, welcome back, you filthy perverts.” She accentuates the jibe with a cheeky wink. “Cheers to you all for the lovely messages you sent in response to last week’s video, I adored hearing your thoughts on wax play-- we’ll be talking a bit more about that soon, I promise. But for this week, we have a special treat from our mail bag!”

She uncrosses and re-crosses her legs casually, the shift in position causing her breasts to sway ever so slightly despite the confines of the corset… Christ, she was _gorgeous._ John gives himself a gentle stroke, and spreads his legs a bit.

“So here’s a lovely letter we got from viewer Un-Christian Grey.” She lets out a rather endearing snicker at the pen name, and John finds himself smiling fondly in response. “Our friend Un-Christian writes, _‘Dear Madame, long-time viewer, first-time writer. My girlfriend and I are huge fans of yours, and you’ve helped us so much in our exploration of the lifestyle! Thanks for all you do.’_ Aw, that’s lovely of you to say, cheers! But now, on to the good stuff. _‘She doesn’t know I’m writing you, but the truth is, we’re at a bit of an impasse. Lately, she’s been mouthing off to me mid-scene. She doesn’t deliberately disobey, not really, but she’s slow to respond and way mouthier than I’d like. We don’t do corporal punishment, that’s a hard limit, but I’m finding it difficult to come up with ways to reprimand her when she acts out. I know I could discuss it with her outside of a scene, but she doesn’t show any signs of unhappiness in our normal life outside of our exchanges! As her Dom, I want to find a way to keep her happy, but I’m at a bit of a loss. Please help! Yours, UNC.’”_

On the screen, Madame La Roux tosses the piece of paper aside and looks directly into the camera. Her posture is open and relaxed, and John feels himself completely at ease with her. She flips her long cascade of shining hair casually back over her shoulders and takes a deep breath, her bosom rising and falling in a most tantalising manner, but she seems entirely oblivious to the sensuality oozing from her being; when she speaks, her response is earnest and direct and nearly businesslike.

“My, that is a spot of trouble you’ve found yourself in! I’m so glad you reached out to me, Un-Christian, and I hope I can help you out a bit. Now, if you’re a fan of my channel, I’m sure you know there are _dozens_ of ways you can reprimand your Sub without involving corporal punishment: edging, overstimulation, verbal admonishment, humiliation… if you need a refresher on any of those and more, I’d encourage you to check out my video ‘Crime and Punishment’ that I posted last year--link below.”

She pauses to re-position herself, swinging her legs effortlessly up onto the settee and leaning onto her elbow against the armrest, fingers carding thoughtlessly through her golden locks. John gives his cock a hard pull, and bites his lip as the sensation ricochets up his spine.

“But here’s the thing, sweetpea. If your Sub is getting lippy, chances are, she’s not asking for _punishment._ If she wanted to be punished, she’d refuse your orders or provoke you directly. But she’s not doing that, is she? No, she’s simply testing you, pushing your boundaries to keep herself engaged, and to me, that indicates that she’s acting out because she’s _bored.”_

John finds himself getting a bit distracted by the way Madame’s lips look accentuating the word _bored._ They look quite like Sherlock’s, only covered in deep red gloss. He establishes a steady rhythm, stroking himself to the thought.

“Now, first things first: it’s not your fault, so don’t be too hard on yourself! It’s totally unrealistic to expect to be on the exact same page as your Sub all the time; occasionally, imbalances like this are bound to come up. The important thing is that you took note, and reached out! That’s the sign of a great Dom, so you should commend yourself for your excellent powers of perception. Your Sub is a lucky girl to have you.”

As she speaks, she gestures animatedly. Her movements are easygoing and effortless, accentuating her laid-back demeanor. John shamelessly ogles the sway of her breasts, but makes an effort to still focus on what she’s saying.

“So let’s talk about the issue at hand: boredom. As we all know, during a scene, your Sub’s attention should be _entirely focused on you._ As their Dom, it’s your job to make sure that you’re guiding them into the proper headspace by commanding their full attention; this is what helps them enter into a submissive disposition. If you allow their mind to wander, they’re not going to be able to submit properly; after all, how you can you expect someone to surrender their autonomy if they’re still thinking about the errands they need to run or the deadline they have at work or the family drama they’re in the midst of? The whole _reason_ your Sub wants to engage in a power exchange with you is so that they can forget about all that!”

John’s hand pauses in his ministrations to consider what she’s saying; so far, it all makes sense. With a confident grin, she carries on.

“Now, in past videos we’ve talked about the different ways that Subs enter their submissive headspace, or ‘subspace,’ as we can call it for short. Some need to be overwhelmed and lavished with attention, while others are more easily able to attain their Submissive focus by being ignored by their Dom, left tied up or kneeling to anticipate what they’re about to be subjected to.”

John smiles to himself as he tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his pajamas and raises his hips to pull them down, exposing his rigid cock to the cool air of the sitting room. He squeezes a bit of lube into his palm and gives himself a few light strokes, mentally conjuring up images of the times he’s left Sherlock kneeling naked in the centre of the sitting room or tied up in an elaborate _Kinbaku_ pattern, achingly hard and whining for attention while John carried on with his daily business, making Sherlock wait for satisfaction. Mmmm, _yes…_

“But it seems to me, UNC, that your Sub is having trouble maintaining proper focus once your scene has started. You don’t mention that she’s hesitating to submit to you up front, but that she’s losing her complacency mid-scene. So let’s talk a bit about ways to avoid that!”

Mmm, yes, alright, then, _let’s…_

“One of the best ways I’ve found to keep my Sub’s undivided attention is _jealousy._ No, I’m not talking about some sort of polyamorous tryst-- unless you’re into that, in which case, by all means!” She giggles girlishly and shakes her head at the thought. “No, what I mean is, showing my Sub I’m able to attain sexual satisfaction _outside_ of her. I’ll instruct her to kneel, or put her in a bind, or suspend her in the corner, then masturbate myself to completion while she watches. By the time I’m through, she’s _gagging_ for even a hint of recognition, and I find it makes her exponentially more attentive during the resulting scene.”

Oh, _fuck,_ and if that wasn’t a pretty picture… John imagines Madame, splayed out on the settee, chest heaving as her hand moves diligently between her legs, perhaps pulling aside her panties to slip a finger or two inside herself, while next to her, her Sub Lucy whimpers helplessly, nude and bound and frantic with desire. (He’s never actually seen Lucy, he’s only heard Madame talk about her, so her appearance is left to his imagination. He imagines she’s tiny, delicate, with dark features and a pixie haircut and small, pert breasts that bob with her heaving breaths.)

“You may also want to consider increasing the complexity of the tasks you give to your Sub. Give her a poem to memorise a few days before your scene, then make her recite it while you go down on her. Make her narrate a fantasy of hers to you while you’re fucking her, and threaten to stop if she pauses. Tie her down and edge her until she’s able to solve a riddle. Make her _think_ for you, so that everything else in the world disappears but you.”

Christ, now _that’s_ a lovely thought… John imagines Sherlock, handcuffed to the headboard, legs splayed, reciting the digits of pi to the _n_ th degree while John fucks into his tight hole, twisting his nipples, making Sherlock cringe and cry out and struggle to maintain his train of thought...

“And my last bit of advice to you, sweetpea, is to avoid sensory deprivation for the time being. Subs react to sensory deprivation differently; for some, it intensifies the experience and makes it easier for them to stay in subspace. For others, the diminished input allows them to become easily distracted. It seems like your Sub may be in the latter camp, in which case I’d recommend you dial that back and see whether it makes a difference.”

With a satisfied smirk she sits upright once more, daintily swinging her legs off the seat to cross them in front of her again. She leans forward earnestly, prominently displaying her cleavage, and gives the camera a wide, relaxed grin. John objectively realises she must know _exactly_ the impact she has on her viewers when she emphasises the goods like this, but she makes it all seem so effortlessly informal and unrehearsed, it somehow makes him feel less like a perv getting off on it.

“Alright, that’s it for our mail bag today. And now on to the fun stuff! This week, we’re going to be talking about a bondage technique called Hishi Takate Kote. There’s an optional element of suspension involved in this one, so it’s recommended for those of you comfortable with hook play. As a reminder, I’m going to be demonstrating the technique on a mannequin. While I’ll call out the safety precautions you need to take as I proceed with the bind, if you want to see it in practice on a real person, go ahead and visit our sister site, _Bond Girls Gone Wild_ \- link below.”

With that, she rises to her feet and turns to retrieve her ropes from a table located behind the settee, bending over seductively, her cheeks peeking out below the trim of her panties.

“Nnnngh…” John’s hand speeds up, and he tips his head back as on-screen, Madame emerges with the ropes and begins her instructions.

The tutorial is informative - of course it is - but John is never able to focus much during his initial viewing; he usually has to circle back and review the video four or five times before he’s able to retain any information through the haze of arousal. So tonight, he just lets himself sit back and allow the spectacle to wash over him.

Madame stays true to form; she demonstrates the technique beautifully, in solemn, practiced motions, making plenty of eye contact with the camera as she does so. She works in mentions of proper safety protocols and pressure points to avoid while still making witty quips and sharing salacious personal anecdotes, all with her trademark degree of effortless charm. She’s clearly aware that her own body is on display as much as the mannequin’s, but she takes it in stride, unceremoniously angling herself towards the camera in positions that show off her gorgeous legs, pert backside, and most of all, her ample breasts.

John doesn’t really register most of what she’s saying. He’s lost in his own head, spinning a beautiful, intoxicating fantasy.

He’s tying up Sherlock in a Takate Kote bind, diligently following the instructions being issued to him by Madame, who is reclining lazily on the sofa, dressed in her Dom gear. Sherlock is nude, hard and panting, and John pauses every so often to dip his head down and suck on his throbbing member. Sherlock writhes and moans under John’s ministrations, struggling against the jute ropes restraining him, but John holds him steady and issues a sharp reprimand. Sherlock’s eyes go hazy and soft, and he relaxes into the bondage.

Once Sherlock is properly restrained, Madame stands up, a thousand-watt grin on her face. She tosses her silky hair over her shoulder and confidently struts across the room to where John is standing, then pulls him in by the front of his jumper for a filthy, devious kiss.

They kiss and kiss until she breaks them apart, tugging the hair at the back of his neck and turning his face to Sherlock, who hangs helpless and transfixed beside them. She pushes John forward, towards Sherlock’s open mouth, and then he and Sherlock are kissing and kissing as he feels Madame’s hand slowly work open the front of his trousers and begin stroking his member.

He moans, panting into Sherlock’s mouth, and he hears Madame giggle beside him. The next thing he knows, she’s on her knees, swallowing him down with aplomb. He issues a hoarse shout, his hand flying to the back of her head to tangle in her hair, guiding her sumptuous lips up and down his throbbing shaft.

Beside him, Sherlock is whimpering, desperately attempting to capture John’s mouth in another kiss. He indulges him, leaning forward, letting their tongues entwine as Madame services him, fellating him with expert precision.

Then Madame is standing up, taking his hand, guiding him back away from Sherlock, across the sitting room to the sofa. He follows her willingly, ignoring Sherlock’s indignant whine of protest. She turns and bends over, placing her hands on the back of the sofa, displaying her gorgeous curves and ample arse. Then she peeks over her shoulder to meet John’s eye, and giggles.

“Unlace me now, yeah?”

“Fuck yes.” John moves to stand behind her, his fingers plucking apart the elegant bow she’s knotted at the top of her corset’s lacings. It dissolves easily, and he loosens the ribbon until she heaves a relieved gasp, finally free of the confines of the device. She stands up and turns to face him, pulling him in for yet another lavish kiss. His hands find the bottom of the corset, and he begins to push it up.

They break apart and she raises her arms, allowing him to pull it over her head. He tosses the interfering contraption decide, and takes in the scene before him.

She’s gorgeous, so gorgeous, and her breasts sway heavily, at odds with her slim waist. They’re supple and round and so fucking beautiful, he can’t help but lean down and suck a nipple into his mouth, raising his hands to cradle them both, delighting in the heat and shape of them. She gasps, her head falling back, and her hand finds its way to his shaft once more.

“Oh, John, sweetpea, yes! Mmmm, just like that, oh, _yes!”_ She arches her back, pushing her breast deeper into his mouth, and he moans around it, flicking his tongue against her peaked nipple.

“Mmm, making me so wet, aren’t you? Oh, John, I’m so ready for you, so ready to take you, _oh…”_

Without ceasing his attention to her chest, he gently guides her back towards the sofa. She takes the hint, lowering herself gracefully, splaying out beneath him like a feast for the taking. It’s with a degree of reluctance that he finally pulls away to survey her supple body, quivering in anticipation.

He leans back in, kissing his way to the centre of her cleavage, using his hands to press her breasts together, burying his face between them. Then he licks his way down her sternum, down her abdomen, until he comes to her panties. He takes them in his teeth, and slowly peels them off.

“Oh, fuck, John!” Her legs fall open, and without hesitation, he unceremoniously discards the panties and buries his face between them.

And God, she’s warm and wet and tastes so fucking amazing. He’s licking into her, outside of her, and she arches and moans as he eats her out, her fingers tangling in his hair. She begins to buck, but he reaches up and pins her pelvis down, stilling her-- he wants to pleasure _her,_ and he’ll do so as he pleases. He opens his eyes to find her staring down at him, her expression one of pure elation. She’s smiling her trademark, familiar smile, eyes twinking, a silent encouragement.

He hazards a glance towards the corner of the room. Sherlock is struggling valiantly against his bindings, making angry, frustrated sounds, his erection throbbing prominently in front of him, dripping with neglect.

Above him, Madame snaps her fingers and shoots an admonishing look in Sherlock’s direction. “Hush, you. You’ll get yours. John, you really ought to keep him better under control, it’s very disappointing…”

John reluctantly pulls away from his feast and casts a withering look in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock stills immediately, his eyes going wide and hopeful. “Do you really need me to come over there?”

Sherlock bites his lips, tears welling up in his eyes. “John. Please.”

With a heavy sigh, John rises to his feet and approaches him. Madame props herself up on her elbows to watch. 

John falls to his knees, and swallows Sherlock down.

Sherlock wails so loudly it’s startling, but he stills as soon as he feels John firmly grip his hips. John sucks him resolutely, in long, firm pulls, opening his throat to allow the tip of Sherlock’s cock to tap the back of his throat with each stroke. Before long, he sees the familiar quiver make its way across Sherlock’s abs; the sign he’s about to come.

He pulls away immediately and rises to his feet, and Sherlock lets out a frustrated huff. John takes his chin firmly in his hand, forcing Sherlock to meet his eyes.

“Look at me, sweetheart. I’m going to go have a little fun, now. If you’re very, very good, I’ll finish what I started here, but I need you to be completely silent and still for me. If you do that, I’ll let you come in my mouth as a reward. How would that be?”

Sherlock bats his eyes at John persuasively. “Very good, John.”

“Alright, then. Now hush, you.”

With that, he turns and makes his way back to the sofa.

Madame has divested herself of the remainder of her clothing, and her hand is making gentle, teasing motions where it rests between her legs. She gives John a dubious glare. “You’re too indulgent with him, you know. That’s why he acts so naughty.”

John just laughs, gazing down at her, so pretty with her golden hair fanned out around her head, her breasts moving ever so slightly in sympathetic motion with her hand. “I know. But I love him, so help me. It blinds the best of us.”

She laughs now, too, tipping her head back, nonchalantly working two fingers into herself as she does so. “Yes, I suppose it does. Now, come here. Let’s make that man of yours nice and jealous.” She withdraws her fingers and spreads her legs further.

John kneels down between them, and guides his prick to her glistening opening. Then he presses himself inside.

“OH!” She tenses and gasps, hands flying to grab the armrest behind her head. Her passage is so hot and wet and so fucking tight, and John moans obscenely as he sinks into her.

“Oh, fuck, you’re amazing. You’re so amazing.” He gazes down at her, eyes wide, cock throbbing in anticipation.

She meets his eye unwaveringly “You’re damn right I am. Now, fuck me, Captain.”

And he does. And it’s perfect. He fucks her hard and deep, and she spreads her legs wide, wrapping them around him, pulling him in. 

Her face is open and relaxed, and she gazes up at him with the commanding stare he knows so well. Her eyes gleam with implied mischief, her lips petal-soft, mouth open, and she’s issuing high, breathy sighs, punctuated by the force of John’s thrusts.

He manages to drag his gaze away from her face, to stare down at her lithe body.

Her skin is golden tan, glowing with a faint sheen of sweat. Her chest is heaving, pulling in desperate, greedy breaths, and her slim waist fits perfectly in his hands as he works himself in and out of her nubile body.

And then… her tits. God, her tits, bouncing rhythmically with every thrust, swaying with the motions of their passion, so round and supple and--

He lowers his head and feasts on them. He licks them, suckles them, and nips and the fleshiest bits, and she loves every second of it, growing wetter and wetter around him. She reaches down to hold them up for him, cupping them in her perfect hands, holding them up like an offering, and he indulges to the fullest…

And then he pulls back and plants his hands beside her head, and fucks into her with everything he has, taking care to rotate his pelvis in just such a way that each thrust rubs resolutely against her clit, making her breath hitch and her eyelids flutter. She’s crying out, high, broken shouts of ecstacy, and he can tell she’s getting lost… Christ, he loves this moment, when he feels the woman he’s with reach the apex of her pleasure as a result of his advances. He focuses on expertly servicing her, using every tool in his well-rounded arsenal.

He hazards a glance over to where Sherlock is suspended in the corner. His eyes are wide and calculating, and John can tell he’s _deducing_ every goddamn sensation John is experiencing right now: every pang of desire and every throb of pleasure he’s feeling is being absorbed vicariously by the man observing him with that hungry, obsessive look in his eye…

Then Madame is clenching around him, her hands flying to his arse, and she guides him deeper and deeper inside her as her eyes go wide and her mouth goes slack and she lets out a wail and comes, slick and tight, all over his turgid prick.

And John comes too, burying himself in her wet heat, grunting and moaning as he empties himself completely, shaking with the overwhelming intensity of it all.

“...Fuck.”

He blinks his eyes open and hazards a glance around the sitting room. It’s disarmingly empty and eerily quiet, and he feels a mortified flush rising in his cheeks.

He glances down and notes he’d gotten rather carried away and failed to take any precautions to contain his release; the front of his t-shirt is now streaked with come, and his fist is fairly coated as well. Wrinkling his nose, he sits up, tosses the laptop onto the seat beside him, and grabs a couple of tissues out of the box, making a perfunctory attempt at tidying himself up.

Just then, his mobile rings, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. He checks the ID; it’s Sherlock. He probably shouldn’t ignore it then; it was exceedingly rare that Sherlock would call instead of text.

“Hello?”

“John?”

“...yeah, Sherlock, who else would it be?”

There’s a pause. “Were you masturbating?”

“Jesus Christ, how could you _possibly_ have known that?”

“If I told you I have a secret superpower that alerts me every time you have an orgasm, would you believe me?”

John laughs despite himself. “Honestly, with timing this uncanny, I just might be inclined to. What are you up to? Everything alright with your parents?”

He hears Sherlock sigh wearily. “For the most part. Actually… no, not really. Just had a bit of a row with my father. Nothing serious, I just… wanted to hear your voice.”

John purses his lips. He likes Sherlock’s parents; he likes them a lot, in fact. It’s taken him a while (and a few sessions of therapy) to acknowledge that, as an outsider to the family, he’s not able to fully comprehend the complexities of Sherlock’s relationship with his parents, on account of Sherlock’s troubled past. “Sorry to hear that, love. Want to talk about it?”

 _“Nope.”_ Sherlock pops the _‘p’_ with his usual exaggerated precision, and the gesture makes John smile. “Actually, I’d much rather talk about your evening.”

John smiles and settles back into the sofa. “Not much excitement to report, I’m afraid. Got the blackout shades installed in 221C. Ran some errands, went to the gym. Made salmon for dinner, since I know you hate it.”

He can practically hear Sherlock wrinkling his nose over the phone. “Make sure to air out the flat before I get home tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

“Sounds like you had a productive evening. Though in all honestly, I’m much more interested to hear about your more _recent_ activities.”

John detects the telltale hint of heat in his voice, and he can’t stop himself from smirking. “Oh, yeah? You alone?”

“Mmm-hmm. Mum put Rosie down without a fuss, and now she and my father are downstairs watching some utter rubbish on the telly, letting me ‘sulk it off,’ as Mummy puts it. So it’s just little old me up here, in my bedroom, all by myself.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, John, and it’s dreadfully lonely. Perhaps you could keep me company, and tell me a story? Perhaps about your latest endeavors?”

John grins. “Well, let’s see. I’m in the sitting room, and I was just having the loveliest fantasy when I was so _rudely_ interrupted by your call.”

“Mmmhmm.” Sherlock’s voice has gone low and gravelly.

“You see, we were in the sitting room here at 221B, and I had you all tied up and suspended from a hook in the ceiling. I’d been teasing and taunting you for ages, and you were so hard, you were leaking all over the floor and begging me for mercy.”

“Oh, fuck…” It’s a choked-off uttering, and John can tell Sherlock is touching himself.

“So I’m approaching you, very, very slowly, and you’re trembling and pleading with me, but you’re helpless against your restraints. I’m the one calling the shots.”

“John… nngh!” Sherlock’s voice is so low it’s barely legible.

“So I’m finally standing in front of you, right? Mere inches away, so close we can smell each other, but not quite touch. And then I sink to my knees…”

Four minutes later, John hangs up the phone feeling rather satisfied indeed.

It had been a lovely evening, so completely and utterly perfect. He can’t wait to finish his tea and head off to bed.

He reaches over towards his laptop, which is lying open on the sofa next to him. But before he can close it, his eyes skim over the text on the screen:

HAVE YOU TAMED YOUR SUB? THREE SIMPLE TESTS TO FIND OUT WHETHER YOUR COMPANION IS TRULY TAME! 

John swallows hard, his curiosity piqued. With a hint of trepidation, he clicks on the link.

Madame La Roux’s face appears, beaming at the camera.

“Hello, naughty boys and girls! Ever wanted to test your Sub to see if he or she has truly submitted to you? Today we’ll be going over three fun, sexy, and challenging tests to see how well you’ve tamed your toy. Ready?” She gives a devilish wink. “Let’s begin!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's get this party started, shall we?

In the immediate aftermath, it’s hard to recall anything except adrenaline and fear.

John can usually begin to parse out some hazy details once his heart rate has slowed and he’s got a shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a flimsy paper cup of water in his hand, but it’s like seeing underwater: just vague shapes and sounds, distant and removed. He can usually recall the general narrative, sometimes the approximate timing and location of the events that transpired, and rarer still, his own role in the trajectory, but that’s about the sum of it.

After an hour, it all begins to slide softly into focus. Usually by that point he’s in the back of a taxi or a squad car or an ambulance (depending on the gravity of the situation), and it’s as if his brain finally connects the neurological pathways that allow him to process the sequence of events in a coherent way. It’s always a little startling when it happens, but after all these years, he’s eventually grown used to it.

By the time he’s required to give an official statement, he can generally relay an impeccably detailed account of his actions during an operation. He supposes he honed his prodigious skills in this department during his military service (his therapist suspects he developed this coping strategy earlier, during a childhood she categorises as ‘traumatic,’ but he doesn’t put too much stock in that). All he knows is that he’s eternally grateful that his brain has helpfully sequestered Combat Mode and Mission Report Mode into two separate, distinct modes of operation.

And he’s even more grateful that these days, he rarely has to use them.

But tonight is an exception.

There had been a killer on the loose. Lestrade had called Sherlock in four days ago, and he’d been working in a manic frenzy ever since.

The M.O. was confusing and complex.

The victims shared no discernable connection.

The violence was escalating.

And Sherlock Holmes was on the case.

John had fallen into his role of silent support with an unusual degree of complacency. Time was, he’d have been badgering Sherlock to eat, to sleep, to play nice with the Yarders and to coordinate his intel, but in all honesty… It had been far too long since Sherlock had been on a nice, grisly murder case. 

He needed to be let loose, to run, to flex his prodigiously honed skill set in full view of a sea of baffled admirers. 

He bloody needed this.

So John had let him off the leash, and watched him run.

And Christ, he was _magnificent._

Sometimes it was so easy to forget that the man singing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” while he rinsed the shampoo out of Rosie’s hair in the bath (always so careful to shield her eyes), the man who made John burnt toast and over-steeped tea without prompting when John was too overwhelmed with work to ask, the man who spent most every night with his arm flung heavily across John’s chest as he let out the most adorably delicate snores John has ever heard, is also the most incredible mind John has ever had the privilege of seeing at work.

As Sherlock ran, he dazzled. 

John basked in his glow.

The case had come to a head near the conclusion of the fourth day. Sherlock had, using his extensive database of ash analysis, linked the murderer to a series of arson fires set in the early 2010’s (John was beginning to feel worse and worse for taking the piss out of Sherlock for that damn database as often as he did), a twist that had left everyone at the Yard reeling in its implications.

“So… he… dismembers his victims gradually, and makes them watch as he burns their body parts?” Lestrade had looked rather green at the gills, and Navarre had walked out of the room altogether.

“Precisely.” Sherlock had, of course, remained entirely unimpacted. “It probably started as something relatively tamer, by comparison: torturing and killing small animals, setting unrelated fires. Those proclivities are common amongst psychopaths, but it seems that for this one, somewhere along the line, the two converged.”

Lestrade had swallowed wetly. “Delightful. But what does that mean in terms of timeline?”

Sherlock pursed his lips as he bent over a computer in the situation room at the Yard, typing furiously into the database. “It means this has been going on a hell of a lot longer than you thought it had.”

Lestrade scowled. “What do you mean? And what the hell are you looking for on there?”

“I’m looking up a full list of arson fires in the past ten years that have resulted in a single casualty. Because chances are, that casualty wasn’t a result of the fire.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened. “He’s… he’s been killing people this whole time.”

Sherlock hadn’t responded.

Less than an hour later, they had their prime suspect pegged: Darren Artwyth, 31, white, male, expelled from two separate boarding schools in his youth following accusations of arson and cruelty to animals. Above-average IQ, sporadic employment history, and a direct correlation between his listed residence and arson-related casualties in the surrounding area.

The game was on.

The chase had been exhilarating (perhaps a bit inappropriately so, considering the circumstances-- John had to fight back the grins he and Sherlock were exchanging en route). John had forgotten what a rush it was, to be swept up in a convoy of squad cars, white-knuckled in the backseat as they raced against time.

When they finally arrived at the derelict row house where Sherlock had deduced Artwyth was holed up, Lestrade set about securing the perimeter with Sherlock glued to his side, ratting off deductions about which escape routes Artwyth was most likely to attempt. Lestrade was tolerant to a point, but had finally lost his patience.

“John, wrangle this one, if you’d be so kind.” John had had to pry Sherlock away as gently as possible, distracting him to the best of his abilities by asking (intentionally) obtuse questions until the operation was underway.

No more than five minutes had passed before a group of officers emerged from the row house, a limp body hanging in their arms. 

“Medic! We need a medic here!”

John had turned and locked eyes with Sherlock. “I have to go help. Stay here.” And with that, he’d taken off, and hadn’t looked back.

By the time the ambulance arrived and the injured officer was stabilised, John had rather lost track of the state of the operation, having fully immersed himself in performing his duty. As he snapped off his gloves, he’d managed to get the attention of a nearby officer, who was intently monitoring the chatter on his comm.

“Oy! Did they catch him?”

“Sorry?”

“Artwyth! Is he in custody?”

The officer shook his head. “Nah, mate, he somehow slipped away. We’re about to get a massive manhunt underway.”

John swore under his breath and turned on his heel, making his way back towards the squad cars. Then he’d stopped in his tracks.

Sherlock was gone.

He knows, objectively, what happened after that.

He knows that in under ten minutes, Sherlock emerged from a hidden trapdoor located within the residence with Altwyth in tow. He knows that Sherlock had gleefully announced to the flabbergasted officers on the scene that he’d realised Artwyth had selected this location for his bolthole because it was situated directly above the closed-off Euston Underground tunnels, and had intercepted him mid-escape. He knows that Sherlock gave Lestrade a statement, and that the paramedics released him with a clean bill of health.

He knows all of that.

Objectively, he knows.

But for now, he can only see it through a dizzying haze of adrenaline and fear.

Beside him in the back of the taxi, Sherlock is all but vibrating out of his skin with elation. He hasn’t stopped grinning since he stepped through the door of the row house with his prize in tow, and John can tell he’s coasting on the high.

John feels ready to throttle him.

But instead, he makes himself breathe.

Because he knows that he can fix this. If he can centre himself and focus on his objective, he can give them both what they need in this very moment, in this particular situation. He reminds himself that he is capable of this, that he knows himself and he knows Sherlock, and that he can restore their equilibrium. He has that power, and it is one that he feels privileged to wield.

So he very intently concentrates on not murdering Sherlock in cold blood in the back of the taxi, and reminds himself to breathe.

When they finally clamber out of the back of the cab, Sherlock bounds ahead of John to unlock the door and take the steps two at a time. John can tell from his demeanor that he’s hungry for a session; clearly chuffed with himself, he presumably imagines John will be giving him _quite_ a treat tonight, and for now, John has no intention of correcting his expectations. The element of surprise would be crucial.

He strides into the sitting room to find that Sherlock’s already discarded his Belstaff haphazardly across the back of the sofa and is facing the door, eyes bright and smile wide. John’s honestly a bit shocked he hadn’t already gone to his knees, but that’s alright; he’s clearly keen to receive John’s instructions, and John doesn’t hesitate before issuing them.

He gives Sherlock a nonchalant once-over (noting the burgeoning bulge in his trousers) before nodding dismissively. “Shower. Now. You have seven minutes. Get yourself clean, but don’t prep yourself. Meet me back here when you’re ready. Understood?” He keeps his gaze level.

Sherlock nods eagerly. “Yes, John!” With that, he scampers off down the hall, leaving a trail of discarded clothing in his wake.

John starts the timer on his phone. He knows that seven minutes will be plenty of time for his purposes, as long as he doesn’t dally, but he must make sure that Sherlock remains prompt. In the meantime, he makes his way to the bedroom to retrieve a few of the essentials and tosses them out on the coffee table before returning to the kitchen to procure a protein bar and a glass of water with a straw, which he places next to them. Then one more trip to the kitchen and the cupboard in the corner, and the stage was set. He lowers himself into his chair, and waits.

Precisely six minutes and thirty-eight seconds after he issued his command, he hears the sound of Sherlock’s bare feet in the hall. He rises just as Sherlock makes his way through the kitchen, the contours of his sinewy musculature thrown into harsh contrast in the fluorescent light, and a shiver makes its way up John’s spine. Sherlock looks fucking _delicious._ He can’t wait to take him apart.

Sherlock takes the final few steps into the sitting room and comes to stand mere inches from John, head up, eyes level, presenting himself for inspection.

John puts a pensive expression on his face and takes a few deliberate steps around him.

“Hmm. Did you get yourself nice and clean for me, love?”

“Yes, John.”

John can’t help himself; he reaches out and runs his pointer finger up the length of Sherlock’s spine, prompting a light gasp. “Very good. And did you polish my tags like we talked about last week?” He takes a few more steps to stand in front of Sherlock, eyeing the place where his dog tags rest against Sherlock’s sternum.

“Yes, John. Immediately.”

“Let’s just be sure.” John steps forward, close enough that he can smell Sherlock’s soap and echoes of the light musk of his unmistakable scent underneath. He lifts up the silver discs and holds them to Sherlock’s lips. “Lick for me.”

Sherlock does, and John has to bite back a smile as Sherlock makes a bit of a show of it, letting his eyes flutter shut and pillowing his cupid’s bow lips around the place where his tongue is seeking out the familiar shape of the engraved letters spelling out John’s name.

“Mmm. Very nice, sweetheart.” He drops the tags back against Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock’s eyes snap open once more, eying John, attempting to anticipate his next move.

John sidesteps his gaze with rehearsed precision to stand behind him. “Raise your arms out to your sides. Spread your legs.” Sherlock complies immediately, and John skims his fingers over the miles of pale alabaster skin exposed before him. He makes non-committal, thoughtful sounds as he does so, pretending to inspect him for any signs of dirtiness.

Just as he can sense Sherlock starting to relax, John drops to his knees, pries his cheeks apart, and licks into his hole.

Sherlock howles with surprise, but to John’s satisfaction, he doesn’t move. John continues to run his tongue around the circumference of his furled opening, occasionally darting it inside, making rather obscene humming sounds as he does so. Above him, Sherlock begins to shake, but he manages to hold himself upright.

Finally, he’s satisfied. He pulls away and rises back to his feet, wiping off his mouth as he does so. “Alright, love, it seems you’re clean enough for me. Are you ready for me to get you nice and messy?”

“Nnngh, yes, please, John.” He’s already sounding a bit whiny, and John knows he needs to move things along to keep him under control.

“Good.” He sidesteps Sherlock’s naked form and plucks the Union Jack pillow off his chair and places it deliberately at the edge of the carpet closest to the coffee table. “We’re going to play a little game, now, love, how does that sound?”

“Good, John.”

“Good. Kneel.” He snaps and points, and Sherlock immediately springs to life. In two quick strides he’s standing beside John, then drops gracefully to his knees on the pillow.

A heady surge of testosterone wells up inside John, and he can feel his member rising to full hardness. God, when Sherlock is like _this,_ all polite and pliant and obedient _just for him,_ Christ, the power trip is so consuming sometimes he wonders if he’s imagining it.

But no, he’s here, and Sherlock’s here, and this is all very, very real. His cock throbs inside his pants, and he palms himself gently as he stares down at the man subservient at his feet.

“Very nice. You going to be good for me tonight, sweetheart?” He always likes to ask; sometimes in the past, Sherlock will be in an insubordinate mood and make John struggle to take him down, but as John expected, tonight doesn’t seem to be one of those nights.

“Yes, John. I’m going to be very good for you.”

“Good.” John unfastens his fly and pulls out his prick, then maneuvers to stand in front of Sherlock’s kneeling form. “Hands behind your back. Suck me. Don’t touch my balls; shaft only.”

“Yes, John.” And with that, Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut, and he leans forward to deep throat John without a single iota of hesitation.

He sucks John just the way he does it best, keeping his lips soft and supple around John’s rigid length, swirling his tongue luxuriously as he bobs his head, producing just enough saliva to keep the slide slick and consuming. He moans deep and low in the back of his throat as he works John over, the vibrations sending tingling sensations deep into John’s sac, causing him to bite his own lip to keep from crying out in ecstasy. God, Sherlock was _so damn good at this._

All too soon, the sensations swirl and gather into a perfect storm. John reaches down and takes two fistfuls of Sherlock’s curls in his fingers and pulls, _tight,_ eliciting a startled cry from the man servicing him. He stares down unapologetically as Sherlock blinks his eyes open to gaze up at him, eager for his next order.

“Open wide, sweetheart. Let me fuck your face, yeah?”

Sherlock lets out a choked garble of affirmation, barely audible around the girth of John’s prick, and John laughs despite himself.

“Good. Open up, steady now, be quiet and take it.”

And with that, John begins to ream into his mouth with gusto.

He holds Sherlock’s head steady, clenching his hair tightly in his hands, and takes his pleasure without hesitation. They’ve done this so many times over the years, John barely has to keep himself in check anymore; he knows just how far he can push Sherlock without choking him, and he doesn’t have to worry about overwhelming Sherlock, knowing that he’s well-versed in this particular act. It’s a simple, easy way to start _Unwinding,_ to establish a dynamic that they can ride throughout the duration of their session, to put Sherlock in his place before they continue on to anything more extreme.

“Nnngh, that’s it, that’s it, nice and wide, love, take it!” Sherlock whimpers helplessly and stares up at John through watery eyes; he knows damn well that John likes it when he maintains eye contact while he’s being used roughly, and he’s being beautifully accommodating tonight.

John gasps through clenched teeth as his orgasm sneaks up on him sooner than expected. As quickly as he can, he yanks Sherlock’s head away with one hand and grasps his own throbbing cock with the other, jerking himself frantically.

“Open up!” The command is needless; Sherlock’s mouth had remained slack and pliant, but the mere act of uttering the command still turns him on.

Sherlock sticks his tongue out and gazes up at John, a look of absolute adoration in his eyes.

John comes all over his face.

He aims the first few pulses at his cheekbones. God, he loves the way his release looks when it lands there, trickling down those sharp slopes he ones described as _mysterious._ Turns out, covered in come, there was really very little mystery to them; they were just sexy as hell.

The rest he aims at Sherlock’s mouth. He’s not particularly precise about it, spattering that perfect plush cupid’s bow with obscene white streaks, leaving just the lightest smatter across Sherlock’s desperate tongue, which causes Sherlock’s eyes to roll back in his head and a satisfied rumble to erupt from his chest. John grunts his way through his pleasure as he empties himself until finally, not a single drop is left.

“Mmm, fuck, very nice, love.” Sherlock’s eyes blink open and John grins down at him before guiding his softening prick back into Sherlock’s mouth. He continues to hold Sherlock steady by the hair as he maneuvers himself gently in and out, slowly coming down from the ecstasy of his high. Sherlock remains unmoving, providing only the lightest suction, careful not to overstimulate John in his post-orgasmic rapture.

Eventually, John’s soft enough that even the light stimulation of Sherlock’s lips feels like too much. He withdraws his cock completely and tucks himself back into his trousers before zipping up and carding his fingers affectionately through Sherlock’s hair.

“Very nice, love, that was very good. You feeling alright?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s throat sounds a bit hoarse and he looks a little dazed, but nothing for concern; John knows he’s just well on his way to going under.

“Good. Now are you ready to start our game?”

Sherlock blinks up at him through damp lashes. “That… wasn’t part of it?”

John shakes his head and laughs. “Oh, no, sweetheart, that was just a nice little treat for myself. I haven’t even properly started with you yet.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinks again, that adorable crease that appears between his eyebrows when he’s perplexed emerging and bringing a grin to John’s face.

John reaches down and gently tips Sherlock’s chin up. “Don’t worry, love. I think you’ll like this game.”

Sherlock swallows hard. “Alright.”

“Good.” John returns his tone to the businesslike professionalism he uses when he’s explaining a new set of rules to Sherlock mid-session. “Here’s what I’d like you to do. Lean forward and put your hands on the floor. Keep your knees on pillow.”

Sherlock complies immediately.

“Very nice. Now, let’s see, where did I put the…” John meanders over to the coffee table and makes quite the show of rummaging around the assortment of goodies he’d laid out. “Ah! Yes, here we go.” With a flourish, he turns and plops a plastic bucket down next to Sherlock’s left hand.

Sherlock raises his head, and gives him a befuddled glance.

John simply drops to his knees beside him and pries the top off the bucket to reveal Rosie’s collection of sidewalk chalk they’d gotten for her to bring to the park. He reaches inside and grabs three sticks.

“This is how the game will work, sweetheart. This chalk here is green, see?” Sherlock nods, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. “This is the best one.” John leans over and begins to trace the outline of Sherlock’s left hand onto the hardwood floor, the chalk gently skimming the very edges of his skin. “Now, if you’re very, _very_ good at this game, your hands will stay inside the green lines. If you do that, you’ll win the grand prize. Sound good?”

Sherlock purses his lips. “What’s the prize?”

John narrows his eyes at him. “Don’t you trust me, sweetheart? The prize is something you’ll like. A reward. That should be all the information you need.”

Sherlock’s gaze immediately drops to the floor, abashed. “Of course. Sorry, John.”

“Apology accepted.” John leans over and traces the outline of Sherlock’s right hand, then drops the green chalk back in the bucket before moving on.

“Now, this chalk here, this is yellow, see?” Sherlock gives a silent nod. John begins tracing an outline approximately a half an inch outside of the green border. “Because I’m being very nice to you tonight, I’m giving you a little flexibility. If your hand moves outside the green but stays inside the yellow, you’ll still get a prize. It won’t be the grand prize, but it will be a nice little reward for good behaviour, to let you know that you’ve pleased me. Understood?”

Sherlock gives a curt nod. “Yes, John.”

“Very good.” John finishes tracing the yellow outline and returns the chalk to the bucket.

“Now, this next part is very important. Are you paying attention?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s tone is firm and even.

“This red outline means Game Over. If your hand moves outside of this line, our session stops. Not just the game, the whole session. If you haven’t come, you’re going to bed hard. And if I haven’t come, I’m going to be _very_ displeased with you. Understood?”

Sherlock nods vigorously, his expression gravely serious. “Yes, John.”

“Excellent.” John finishes the red outline and drops the chalk back in the bucket, then returns the bucket to the table with an unceremonious clatter. “So let’s have a little trial run, shall we?” And with that, he picks up the bottle of lube, squeezes a small dollop into his palm, then walks to position himself behind Sherlock before kneeling and reaching around him, hand closing firmly on his turgid prick, which hangs hot and heavy between his legs.

Sherlock throws his head back and howls.

“Oh, you’re very hard, aren’t you love?”

“Nnngh, John! Yes! Oh!” John gives his shaft a tentative pump, and Sherlock’s entire body seizes up like a bowstring.

“Oh, yes, I can feel that.” John applies his most infuriatingly placating tone as his hand caresses Sherlock’s twitching cock, as if examining it for defects. “My, love, that can’t be very comfortable. I want you to come for me. Now.”

And with that, he begins to jerk Sherlock’s cock with practiced precision. 

He’s watched Sherlock get himself off enough times to know exactly how he likes it, and he follows his formula to a T, right down to the swift swipes of the thumb across his leaking head.

“NNNNGH! Oh, John! John!” Sherlock sounds completely wrecked, shocked with the sudden turn of events; he usually wasn’t permitted to come so soon after the start of a session.

“Shh, sweetheart, it’s okay!” John runs his spare hand reassuringly up and down Sherlock’s side, gentling him, trying to steady is quivering breathing. “It’s okay, love, go ahead and come. Come for me, come on, just let go…”

And with a deep, nearly-anguished groan, Sherlock releases himself all over the floor. John can feel his cock grow impossibly harder, accompanied by the faint sound of liquid hitting the hardwood.

“Oh, there we go! There we go, nice and easy now, let it out, it’s alright, shhh, I’ve got you…”

Sherlock cries out again as another wave of pleasure wracks his body, and John can feel his prick throb and twitch in his hand as it emits more come.

“Good! Good, love, very good, you’re so good for me, coming like that. Shhh, easy now, just relax, let it all out, shhh…”

John continues to gently stroke him until he feels Sherlock’s cock start to go soft. He reluctantly relinquishes his grip, then leans to the side to check on their results.

Sure enough, Sherlock’s hands have remained resolutely inside the green lines.

“Oh, sweetheart, you kept your hands in place for me! Look at that!” 

Sherlock issues a sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a whimper, and shivers.

John wipes his hand hastily on his trousers and shuffles around so that he’s kneeling beside Sherlock and is able to cup his face in his hands. He tilts his head upwards until their gaze meets.

“You alright, love?”

“Yes, John. That was just… that felt really good.” Sherlock gives him a dazed smile, and John grins back; Sherlock is firmly under. Excellent.

“Mmm, good, love, it’s supposed to feel nice.” He leans forward and gives Sherlock a quick peck on the lips. He doesn’t take it further than that; Sherlock’s mouth is still covered in John’s come, and while he’s learned not to mind the taste of his own come in certain situations, he doesn’t seek it out unnecessarily.

“Alright, now let’s see. It’s been a few days since you’ve taken proper care of your transport, so that’s what we’ll do next.” John keeps his tone light and appeasing; he knows Sherlock dislikes this part of their sessions, but he’s hoping that providing him with the challenge of keeping his hands in place will be enough.

First, he procures the glass of water he’d filled and holds the straw up to Sherlock’s lips. “Five sips now, slowly please. No chugging. Very nice, there you go.” He gently pulls the straw away and peels the wrapper off the protein bar before holding it up in its stead. “One bite, chew ten times.” Sherlock complies wordlessly, and John internally commends himself on coming up with a new method to get Sherlock to eat and drink while they were Unwinding post-case; surely this would be helpful in the future.

He coaches Sherlock through the remainder of the water and the protein bar, and Sherlock finishes both without complaint. By the time he’s finished, John’s feeling rather pleased with the situation indeed.

“That was lovely, sweetheart, well done.” Sherlock lifts his head and gives John a muzzy smile, the kind he only gets when they’re doing things like this, and it makes John’s heart swell inside his chest.

John rises to his feet as gracefully as possible (his knees screaming in protest; Christ, he really was getting to old for floor sex) and brushes the creases out of his trousers as casually as possible. “Alright, love. Now that you’ve had your dinner, I’m rather ravenous for mine. Stay.”

And with that, he turns and makes his way to the kitchen, where he puts the kettle on and pops some leftovers in the microwave.

This part is tricky for him. He knows Sherlock loves being ignored mid-session and he knows that from a biological standpoint, they both need time to recover between orgasms, but it’s still difficult not to check in with Sherlock every few minutes to make sure that he’s alright. But John has to trust Sherlock now, just as much as Sherlock trusts him. It’s a two-way street, and he knows he has to be mindful of that.

So he plops his plate on the kitchen table and makes himself a nice strong cuppa and pours himself a glass of water and then sits down and has a proper dinner as he tries to fill out one of the Sudoku puzzles in the book he’d purchased for situations just like this one. He keeps a casual eye on the time, but he’s not terribly concerned; the pillow would provide plenty of cushion for Sherlock’s knees, and he had the ability to shift his weight off his hands and back towards his haunches if he so needed. Aside from that, Madame La Roux had indicated that the position he’s currently in had no other real pressure points for concern, so John needn’t check in too often.

Finally, nearly an hour has elapsed. John slaps the book closed on his (half-completed) puzzle and rises to his feet, making his way slowly back to the sitting room.

Sherlock is still there, dutifully holding the position. His nude form looks gorgeous like this, lithe and angular yet still somehow relaxed. The scars that mar his back cast soft shadows in the lamplight, and John allows himself to admire them unabashed for once. He knows Sherlock hates his scars, but Christ, John loves them. They make him look so fucking beautiful.

Sherlock whimpers, and a visible tremble works its way up his spine. John takes a few tentative steps forward.

“You alright, love?”

Sherlock nods. “Yes, John. Just… want… want you.” He arches his back enticingly, presenting his arse as suggestively as possible, and John has to bite his cheek to keep from giggling at the desperate display. God, this game really was working quite the charm…

“Mmm, thank you, love, but you’ve got a ways to go before you get such a nice reward. First, let’s get a look at this pretty face of yours.” He wanders over to tip Sherlock’s chip up once more and give his face an admiring once-over. “Oh, very nice, still nice and messy with my come, hmm?”

Sherlock smiles. “Yes, John.” He looks very peaceful.

“Good. Open your mouth.” Sherlock complies thoughtlessly. John presses three of his fingers inside. “Get my fingers wet. Want to play with your hole now.”

Sherlock nods as voraciously as possible with his mouth so full, and John actually does laugh out loud. But his laughter soon fades as he focuses on the attention Sherlock is lavishing upon the digits in his mouth, coating them thickly with saliva, eyes fluttering shut as he devotes himself earnestly to the task.

Finally, John withdraws his fingers and uses his free hand to give Sherlock’s hair an affectionate ruffle. “Very nice, love. Well done. Now, remember the rules of the game: you have to keep your hands in place, or you won’t get the grand prize. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good.” With that, he rises and grabs the tartan throw off the back of his chair, folding it over itself twice to form a bit of padding, which he places on the floor behind Sherlock. Then he lowers himself to his knees, and pries Sherlock’s cheeks apart.

Sherlock moans wantonly and arches his back further, and John grins at the spectacle laid out before him. The two perfect globes of Sherlock’s magnificent arse are parted to reveal his hole, open slightly from his earlier attention but still visibly tight. It’s times like this that John pauses to reflect fondly on the fact that he’s the _only_ man Sherlock’s ever let fuck him; whatever else he got up to before he met John feels entirely inconsequential when compared to the fact that John is the only man he’s ever let access this private, intimate part of him. It’s a privilege beyond compare, and one that John takes _very_ seriously; he wants to make sure Sherlock experiences every form of pleasure imaginable when he’s giving himself to John like this.

“Fuck, gorgeous.” John reaches down to circle his rim with two slick fingers, and Sherlock shudders. “Mmmm, you’re very tight tonight, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Yes, John.”

John dips two of his fingertips gently inside and prods about a bit, giving Sherlock a moment to hiss and adjust to the stretch. “Mmm, sweetheart, it’s going to take some work to get you nice and opened up...”

Sherlock mutters something under his breath, and John pauses in his ministrations, his fingers half inside him. “What did you just say, love?”

When Sherlock speaks, his tone is whiny, verging on sassy. “I said, ‘It _has_ been three weeks since you fucked me, after all.’”

John blinks down at Sherlock’s rigid form, still poised and in place but clearly toeing the line. He’d thought Sherlock was fairly well under, but now it appears that after their lengthy break, he’s feeling a bit restless.

John withdraws his fingers immediately and issues a sharp pinch to Sherlock’s arsecheek. Sherlock yelps but keeps his hands in place, and John chooses his next words wisely.

“Is that a problem, _darling?”_ _Darling_ is a threat - he only uses this name for Sherlock when he’s misbehaving, and Sherlock knows damn well it’s a warning sign.

Sherlock mumbles something unintelligible under his breath.

John pinches his cheek again. “Speak up, now. I can’t hear you back here.”

“I want you to claim me.”

John sighs, feigning exasperation. “You need to be more specific, darling.”

Sherlock clears his throat and shifts a bit. “I want… I want you to fuck me and come in me and bite me. I want… I need it, John, you haven’t in so long, and I need… I need it.”

John feels a distant pang of guilt in the back of his subconscious. The past few weeks _had_ been predictably busy, and he’s forced to admit to himself he’d lost track of how long they’d gone without penetrative intercourse. While they rarely go through spells of outright celibacy, the demands of their everyday lives sometimes make intercourse too demanding or time-consuming, and they’re forced to make do with sporadic handjobs or blow jobs or mutual masturbation to get them through. John finds these alternatives perfectly acceptable to meet his needs, but he knows by now that Sherlock needs full-blown intercourse on a regular basis to feel affirmed in their connection. It’s something John’s usually mindful about, but he’d admittedly let it slide over the past few weeks, and he’s suddenly potently aware of that.

“Oh, sweetheart, I know you need it, and you’ve been so very patient, haven’t you?” He uses his spare hand to issue a few reassuring strokes up and down Sherlock’s back. He’s walking a thin line here; he feels bad that Sherlock’s been feeling neglected, of course he does, but they _are_ still currently mid-session, and he needs to maintain the upper hand. Sherlock gives a solemn nod and what sounds like a sniffle. John wasn’t really expecting tears tonight, but he takes it in stride.

“Yes, you’ve been very good and patient, but the thing is, sweetheart, I’m calling the shots here tonight. You need to trust me to take care of you. Can you do that?”

Sherlock nods vigorously. “Yes, John.”

“Okay. Good. Thank you for that, sweetheart. Now, where were we…” With that, he lines up three of his fingers and presses them deep inside. Sherlock howls, and John can see his knuckles visibly whiten as he clenches his fingers against the floor, but he doesn’t move his hands outside of the perimeters that have been set. Something about this fact makes John feel very warm inside.

John continues to prep him, just using his fingers and a bit of spit for now. He has a lot more in store for Sherlock, but he wants to take this one step at a time, raising the stakes gradually, just like Madame La Roux had suggested. He doesn’t want to rush things and let Sherlock off the hook too easily.

At long last, he gives his fingers a final, resolute twist, prompting a grunt from Sherlock, who had long since lapsed into a focused, deliberate silence.

“Mmm, very nice.” John withdraws his fingers, and Sherlock visibly shudders at the loss. Without fanfare, John rises to his feet and issues his next command without hesitation. “Now, stay here and hold very still. I need to fetch a few more things before we can carry on.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s voice is low and broken, and he doesn’t raise his head. He’s clearly getting desperate already, descending into that position of unquestioning complacency that sets John’s blood alight.

“Good. Stay.” John marches into the kitchen and opens the freezer, where the bowl he’d prepared earlier is perched innocently on a shelf. Grinning to himself, he plucks it up and turns back to the sitting room, pausing only momentarily to admire the graceful slope of Sherlock’s back where he’s frozen in his assumed position. Christ, he’s gorgeous.

But he can’t let himself get distracted. In three strides, he’s back behind Sherlock, who arches and preens, eager for John’s attention.

“Alright, love. Now, let’s test your deductive capabilities, shall we?”

“Yes, John.”

“I’ll give you one guess as to what I have in my hand.”

Sherlock lets out a low chuckle. “Oh please, that’s child’s play. Besides, it’s not a _guess,_ John, it’s an _observation--”_

“Oy!” John snaps his fingers, and Sherlock lapses into abashed silence. “If you’re going to be sassy with me, sweetheart, this evening is _not_ going to go the way you want it to. If you keep mouthing off, I’m going to send you to bed this instant, and you’ll have to go to sleep without even taking my cock. Is that what you want?”

“No, John.”

“I think you’d better call me Captain from here on out. You seem to be forgetting exactly who is in charge here. Understood?”

“Yes, Captain.”

And _God,_ when Sherlock utters that word in his unmistakable baritone, it takes all of John’s willpower not to just fuck him senseless then and there.

But no, _no,_ it would be better this way, _so much better..._

“Much better. Now, love, tell me what I’m holding in my hand.”

“A bowl of ice, Captain.”

“That’s correct. Very astute observation, sweetheart.” John can see that despite himself, Sherlock shivers beneath John’s praise. “Now we’re going to practice a very important skill. Do you have any idea what that skill might be?”

Sherlock pauses.

“It’s not a trick question, sweetheart.”

“I… um, no, I don’t know, Captain.”

“Ah. So it seems you don’t have _everything_ figured out, do you?”

“No, Captain.”

“No, you don’t. So the skill you’ll be practicing is to _hold still when I fucking tell you to.”_ He lets his voice go low and dangerous, and the effect on Sherlock is instantaneous; there’s an obvious tension that straightens his spine, and his head drops low against his chest. 

“Now, do you know why we’re going to practice this particular skill, darling?”

Sherlock swallows loudly. “Because… because I didn’t listen to you today.”

 _“Very_ good, love. And you’re absolutely correct: today I told you to hold still, and what did you do instead?”

“I chased the perp myself.”

“That’s right. You disobeyed me and put yourself in danger, instead of letting the professionals handle it.”

“But John, they’d have let him get away--”

“WHAT did you just call me?”

“Sorry, _Captain,_ I meant Captain... they’d never have found the tunnels, they’d--”

In two swinging steps, John’s moving to stand in front of Sherlock, grabbing his hair and forcing his head back so that their eyes meet. Sherlock hisses and yelps at the suddenness of John’s response.

“They’d have been able to find him if you’d just told them where to block off the tunnels, _darling._ But no, you had to chase after him yourself, play the hero, hmm?”

Sherlock stares back at John, his eyes unblinking, unresponsive and belligerent.

John tightens his grip on Sherlock’s follicles, angling his head back ever so slightly further. Sherlock winces, and John leans in close, refusing to break. He has him on the ropes, he knows, but he needs to drive his point home.

Then Sherlock blinks. Once, twice, then his eyes dart downwards, breaking contact, and when he speaks, his voice is barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, Captain.”

John releases his hair immediately. Hair-pulling is about as close to pain play as the two of them get, and John doesn’t want to push Sherlock’s boundaries. He lets go, and Sherlock’s head sags back towards his chest, eyes reverting towards where his hands are still resolutely placed between the lines drawn on the floor.

“That’s what I thought. One more time.”

Sherlock speaks more clearly this time. “I’m sorry, Captain.”

“And what are you sorry for?”

“I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t hold still when you told me to.”

“Very good, sweetheart. Very good. Now we’ll just have a little practice, and then you’ll be forgiven, alright?”

Sherlock nods slowly. “Yes, Captain.”

John knows, objectively, that to a degree, this is all an exercise in futility: While Sherlock has consented to handing over his autonomy to John when they’re having a session, their power exchanges never extend beyond the designated time they spend Unwinding inside their flat. In their day-to-day life, the idea of Sherlock _obeying_ John is all but laughable; he’s as strong-willed, stubborn, and ornery as ever, regardless of what they get up to sexually. And when it came to the Work, Sherlock was always the one calling the shots; John had never wanted to interfere with that, it was hallowed ground, Sherlock’s territory through and through. 

So what they’re doing here tonight won’t have any repercussions outside of this session. But it will make John feel better here, in this moment. And that’s what their sessions are all about: Restoring the equilibrium between them, and giving them both what they need _in the moment._

“Alright, love. Now, hold very still, and look straight ahead. Remember to keep your hands inside the lines, yeah?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I’m going to put these ice cubes on your back, and you’re going to be very good for me and hold them there. Understood?”

A shiver wracks its way down Sherlock’s spine. They’ve toyed with temperature play before, but they haven’t engaged in a while, and John’s instantly reminded of how favourably Sherlock had reacted the last time he’d used it.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good.” And with that, John reaches into the bowl and places three ice cubes in the divot of Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock hisses and twitches with the application of each one, but he doesn’t recoil.

Once the ice cubes are in place, John deposits the bowl on the end table, then lowers himself into his chair to watch.

And Christ, it’s a sight to behold. Sherlock flinches and gasps as the cold permeates his skin, but his hands remain resolutely in place, causing the muscles of his back to ripple with tension. He throws his head back and moans.

John reaches into his own trousers, and lazily strokes his cock.

He’s not quite sure how long it takes for the first set of ice cubes to melt, but as soon as they’ve been reduced to water pooled between Sherlock’s prominent vertebrae, John replaces them with a new set, offset in position by a few inches so as not to aggravate the skin. He settles back into his chair and continues to fondle his own hardening shaft as he watches Sherlock shiver and strain. From this angle, John has a perfect few of Sherlock’s glorious arse, clenching helplessly as the sensation of the ice commands his attention.

For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of their breathing.

Then, suddenly: “Ah! Ah, Captain!”

John’s sits up to attention. “Sherlock? You alright?”

“Nnngh. Yes. Yes, I just… needed to know you’re here.”

It dawns on John that in his current position, Sherlock can’t see him, and he’s therefore unsurprised that Sherlock needs a bit of additional validation. He’s glad that Sherlock felt confident enough to ask for it.

“Yes, I’m here, sweetheart, and you’re doing beautifully. I’m touching myself while I watch you, and it feels amazing. You make me feel so good, love.”

“Mmmm, thank you, Captain.” John can see a degree of tension leaving Sherlock’s shoulders, and he lets his head sag downward once more.

John replaces the ice twice more after it melts. He offers up a few occasional words of praise as he watches Sherlock in the aftermath, and he observes how much it quiets Sherlock to know he’s pleasing John. It’s a glorious, intoxicating tableau, and by the time he approaches Sherlock the fifth time, John is so hard he can’t refasten his trousers.

“Mmmm, love, you’re being so good for me, aren’t you?”

“F-f-f-uck, yes, Captain!” Sherlock’s voice sounds wet and raw, and John’s pleased to note that water is now pooled the length of his spine, evidence of his continued compliance.

“Yes, yes you are, sweetheart. I think you’ve earned a little reward, now, haven’t you?”

A sniffle, and a pause. “...Yes, Captain?”

“Yes, you have. Let’s get you nice and ready to take it, shall we?”

“Yes, please, Captain!” Sherlock’s voice audibly brightens as John grabs the lube from the coffee table and pours it over his fingers. Sherlock gamely arches his back, and John uses his free hand to pry his cheeks open before plunging three digits into his fluttering hole.

“AUGH!” Sherlock throws his head back and rolls his neck, but he keeps his hand resolutely in place as John pistons into him roughly, coating his passage thoroughly.

“Oh, yeah, getting you nice and open, aren’t we sweetheart?”

“NNNGH! Yes, Captain, yes!”

“You ready to take what I’m about to give you?”

“Yes, Captain!”

“Very good. Now remember, hold very still, love…”

With that, John withdraws his fingers and turns to grab the vibrating anal plug from where it’s floating innocently in the bowl of ice water.

Without hesitation, John slicks it up and presses the tip of it against Sherlock’s hole.

“Deep breath, love.”

Sherlock heaves a shuddering breath, and John presses the plug inside him in one steady motion.

“AH! John! John! Nnnngh, Captain, Captain, fuck! JOHN!” Sherlock’s oscillating his spine in rhythmic contractions, swaying his hips, desperately attempting to alleviate the pressure of the sudden intrusion.

The vibrating anal plug has become a favourite of both of theirs. While it’s shorter than the vibrator John usually uses on him, the plug is considerably wider in girth, providing Sherlock with better stretch and preparation for rough use.

“Shhhh, shhhh sweetheart, just let it happen, shhhh…” John runs his hands over Sherlock’s flanks in soothing circles, attempting to gentle him.

“Ngh! Ah! Ah! Nnnngh, it’s _cold…”_

“I know, love, I know. But you’re taking it so well, aren’t you?”

“Y-y-yes, Captain.”

“Yes, you are. Now, just relax. There we go, there we go, shhh…” John spends a few more minutes gently petting him, not touching him anywhere sexual, simply giving him the reassurance and praise he so needs when John is pushing his boundaries. 

Eventually, Sherlock’s muscles start to relax once more. John reaches down and traces his rim where it’s stretched wide around the plug, and he’s pleased to find that it feels passably accommodating; there doesn’t seem to be an imminent risk of tearing. Satisfied, John reaches back into the bowl and lines up a new row of ice cubes down the length of Sherlock’s spine.

“Alright, love. Now comes the hard part.” Sherlock whimpers, but he doesn’t move. “I’m going to turn the vibrations on. You’re allowed to come whenever you want. But if you move and let a single ice cube fall, you’ll be punished severely. Understood?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And you’re still not allowed to move your hands outside those lines. Understood?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good. Let’s begin.”

And with that, John flicks the switch on the base of the plug, and the device springs to life.

Sherlock wails, and John can see the muscles of his arse clench around the intruding ministrations. Sherlock shifts his pelvis slightly, clearly attempting to prevent the plug from hitting his prostate directly, but it causes the ice cubes to shift dangerously, and he’s barely able to right his spine to the correct angle in time to save them.

“AH! Fuck, fuck! AH! AH!” Sherlock is crying out, but his body has finally frozen in place: if he’s to obey John’s orders, he literally can’t move.

It’s one of the most erotic things John’s ever seen in his goddamn life.

Sherlock’s back is rigid, spine ramrod straight save for the telltale curve near his coccyx, where he always tilts his hips when he’s being penetrated from behind. His shoulders are locked out where he’s pressing against the floor with all his strength, willing his hands to remain in position. His thighs are trembling, knees parted slightly where they’re still resting resolutely on the Union Jack pillow. His toes are curled under, clenched tight against the rug. His head is raised, and he’s issuing sharp, animalistic grunts from somewhere deep inside of him.

“Oh, fuck, _yes,_ sweetheart! Does that feel good?”

“Nnnnnnnnngh John! Captain! It’s--fuck, cold, so cold, so cold, I’m… nnnnggghhhahhhhh!” A shiver causes his entire body to seize, and John watches in fascination as Sherlock’s hole flutters against the relentless stretch of the plug.

“You’re being so good, love! You’re holding very still for me, aren’t you?”

“Y-y-yes, Captain!”

“That’s… oh, oh _fuck…_ that’s right, love, you’re perfect, you’re so perfect…” John’s begun to stroke himself again, standing over Sherlock’s agonized form, his turgid cock throbbing at the erotic display before him. “Do you want to come for me, sweetheart?”

“GAH! Yes, Captain, please!” Sherlock sounds completely wrecked; how he’s managing to hold still in his current state is a complete mystery to John.

“Alright, then, just let me get where I can see you…” John makes his way around the coffee table and sits down on the sofa before taking his own cock back in hand and jerking it roughly. Sherlock looks up, and their eyes meet for the first time in what feels like ages; John feels as though a bolt of electricity has been shot through him.

“Oh, yeah, sweetheart, you’re so beautiful, so beautiful for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Captain, all for you…” Sherlock’s eyes are growing watery with the tremendous effort he’s expending. John is so goddamn proud of him.

“Go ahead, love. Come whenever you want.”

It’s not instantaneous, as John had thought it would be. Sherlock twitches and moans for a few more minutes, eyes wild and desperate as they lock with John’s. It’s clear that if he were able to use any of his usual tricks (dropping down onto his elbows to change the angle of penetration, oscillating his hips to control the rhythm of the pressure against his prostate, perhaps even tugging his own balls or pressing against his perineum to increase the intensity of the sensations), he’d have gone off in seconds flat. But as it stands, Sherlock is completely immobilized by John’s commands, and he’s helpless to do anything besides hold still, and wait.

John continues to pleasure himself dazedly as he watches Sherlock fall apart. He doesn’t let himself come, but he gets close to the bring a few times, and has to squeeze the base of his throbbing cock to keep himself from shooting off prematurely. 

Then, out of nowhere, Sherlock shouts and his eyes fly open wide. John sits up and leans forward to watch as Sherlock’s cock lengthens, pulses, and then deposits a generous emission onto the floor below, completely untouched.

But John’s only able to concentrate on Sherlock’s prick for a moment. Then his eyes are riveted back to Sherlock’s face, which is twisted in awestruck ecstacy. He shouts again as the aftershocks work their way through him, but he doesn’t break John’s gaze, and John feels the blazing heat of desire claw its way up his own spine; he feels completely consumed with the urge to take Sherlock, hard, fast, _now._

But no, _no,_ they’re not there quite yet, but John needs _some_ sense of relief… Before him, Sherlock is whimpering pathetically, covered in a sheen of sweat as he comes down from the high. Without thinking, John rises to his feet and all but staggers around Sherlock’s knelt form, crouching into position behind him and staring down unabashedly at his exposed hole as he frantically strokes his own cock.

Seconds later, he’s coming, splashing hot, thick streaks across Sherlock’s hole and quivering cheeks. Sherlock cries out wantonly as he feels John’s release hit his exposed flesh, but he still remains essentially motionless, careful to continue balancing the waning cubes along his spine, even as John coats him in evidence of his pleasure.

And then, there is nothing. Nothing but the sound of their heaving breath, and the faint, distant buzz of the plug lodged in Sherlock’s arse.

“God, fuck, _yes.”_ John reaches down and runs his fingers through the come coating Sherlock’s arse. He uses it to trace lazy circles around Sherlock’s rim before finally flipping the switch off, silencing the persistent vibrations. 

Sherlock lets out a relieved moan. John grins down at him, noting that the last of the ice cubes have melted, leaving a delicious trough of water cooling in the basin of his spine. Without thinking, he leans forward and proceeds to slurp it all up.

“Ah! Oh, Captain, yes, yes, thank you, _oh…”_

John smugly laps his way up and down Sherlock’s back, cleaning up the last remnants of the water. All the while, he continues to trace gentle circles around Sherlock’s rim, smearing as much come into his crack as he can, waiting for his own heart rate to slow.

“Mmmm, sweetheart, that was lovely, so lovely.” John’s voice sounds rough and low, even in his own ears. He peers around Sherlock’s back to confirm that he hasn’t moved his hands; sure enough, they’re still resolutely within the lines. “Oh, love, you held very, very still, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I’m so proud of you. Now, stay there and relax a bit. We’re almost done.”

Sherlock lets out a low whimper, but John remains undeterred. He fastens his trousers and makes his way back to the kitchen, where he flicks the kettle on to reheat the now-lukewarm water. He stares dazedly into space as he waits, the oxytocin and dopamine flooding his brain with a delightful post-orgasmic buzz. By the time the kettle whistles he’s so spaced out that he visibly jumps, then chuckles quietly at himself, feeling mildly abashed. He pops another teabag in his mug and refills it, then returns to the sitting room to settle into his chair and flick on the telly.

It’s all a performance, of course it is. There’s no way John could possibly focus on whatever grim World War Two documentary happens to be playing when a mere few feet away, Sherlock is nude, coated in come, and knelt on all-fours. But this is part of the game, and John knows it’s what Sherlock needs, so he forces his eyes to remain locked on the screen as he savours his tea, refusing to give Sherlock the satisfaction of knowing he has John’s undivided attention.

He doesn't wait as long this time. It’s getting late, and he’s quite keen to move on to the third and final test of the night. Luckily, just thinking about what he has in store for Sherlock gets him hard again in what feels like record time, so as soon as the telly goes to commercial break, he nonchalantly flicks it off and turns to face Sherlock.

“You alright over there, love?”

“Mmmm. Yes, Captain.” Sherlock’s voice sounds slightly slurred, and John’s fairly certain he’d been drifting off in that lovely place he’s tried so hard to describe to John before, the place his brain goes when he’s submitting.

“Good. Ready to continue? You have one more test before you get the prize.”

“Yes, ‘m ready.”

“Good.” John rises to his feet and briskly deposits his teacup in the sink before reaching into the cupboard (right behind the teabags, where Sherlock is sure never to look) to procure the last of the surprises he has in store for tonight.

He’d been planning this part for a while, waiting for the right occasion to do it, and now that the moment is finally upon them, he finds himself nearly breathless with anticipation. He can’t wait to see how Sherlock will react to this new challenge.

Returning to the sitting room, he comes to kneel before Sherlock. Sherlock raises his head to meet John’s eyes, his expression serene and trusting, and John’s heart seems to swell in his chest. Sherlock’s skin looks so gorgeous coated in John’s come, God, just the sight of it takes his damn breath away…

But no, no, he needed to _focus._ It was important he maintain control of the situation.

“Hi, love.”

“Hi, J- I mean, Captain.”

John smiles dotingly down at him. “You’ve been so good for me so far tonight, sweetheart. Are you ready for me to push you a little further?”

Sherlock nods enthusiastically, and John can’t suppress the laugh that burbles up from within him, filled with affection. “Alright, then. Look here. Do you know what this is?”

He holds out an item before him. Sherlock’s brow knits into an expression of confusion. “It’s a… candle?”

“That’s right. It’s a special kind of candle, though, one where the wax doesn’t get hot enough to burn skin.”

A look of realisation is dawning on Sherlock’s face.

“Now, you and I don’t partake in pain play, but from the research I’ve done, most people categorise this as _sensation_ play; it will feel unusual, possibly even uncomfortable, but it shouldn’t _hurt._ Does that make sense?”

Sherlock gives a slow nod.

“Is this something you’d like me to try out on you?”

Sherlock pauses for a moment, and John’s breath catches in his own throat. What if he’d misread Sherlock’s mood tonight? What if he’d misjudged where they were at in their relationship? While it was true they were still taking baby steps back into power exchanges following a brief hiatus during which they’d sought professional help for their communication issues, he’d thought sensation play would be a fairly neutral undertaking for them to make a brief foray into. But maybe--

“Yes, please, Captain.” Sherlock’s voice sounds steady, perhaps even a bit eager, and the knot in John’s chest unclenches.

John breaks into a wide grin, which Sherlock readily returns.

“Mmm, excellent, love, I think this will be fun. Shall we review our limits?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Alright. This should feel _intense,_ but it shouldn’t _hurt._ If you’re experiencing pain, or if this particular sensation is turning you off instead of on, I want you to tell me immediately, okay?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Because you’re facing down, I’m not going to be able to read your expression while we’re doing this. That means I need you to communicate with me verbally to express your consent while we do this. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“If you want to stop, say stop. If you want to pause, say so, and we can resume later if you decide you want to continue. If you feel incapable of speaking, snap your fingers twice. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“And last, as part of our game tonight, your hands need to remain inside those lines. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Mmmm, excellent, love. Now, let’s get to it, shall we?” With a roguish wink, he maneuvers out of Sherlock’s sightline to crouch next to him. His blood feels hot in his own veins, and he can feel his erection throbbing intently against the front of his trousers already.

He takes a deep breath to steady himself, and mentally review the safety instructions Madame La Roux had outlined in her video on wax play. When he feels calm, steady, and confident, he procures the lighter from his pocket and flicks it on.

Sherlock audibly moans and rolls his spine, and John’s eyebrows rise in response. “Mmmm, eager are we, sweetheart?”

“Fuck, _yes, Captain, God…”_

Well, damn. Seems Sherlock was rather fond of the idea as well. John mentally commends himself for his read on the situation, then lowers the lighter to ignite the wick.

The room feels eerily silent as John stares down at the candle, waiting for the wick to burn down and for the wax to start to pool. Once it does, he places it carefully beside himself, then grabs the massage oil off the coffee table and coats his fingers with it before running them down the length of Sherlock’s spine. The skin beneath his fingers is already red from contact with the ice, and John’s cock jumps as his fingertips glide over the scar tissue criss-crossing the area. Fuck, he _loves_ the way Sherlock’s back looks, and tonight he’s been able to admire it to an unprecedented degree. He feels a swell of gratitude that Sherlock is so indulgent of him.

By the time Sherlock’s back is covered with a thin layer of oil, the candle is burning warm enough to have amassed a decent-sized pool of melted wax. John picks it back up and holds it over Sherlock’s lower back, careful to hold it at least eighteen inches from the skin. He suddenly feels quite nervous again, but he reminds himself to _focus_ on providing what he and Sherlock both need.

Without further hesitation, he gently tips the candle. The first drops spatter against the skin of Sherlock’s lumbar spine.

“AH! Ahhh… mmm?” Sherlock goes from sounding ecstatic to completely perplexed in the period of a half a second.

“Sweetheart, you alright?”

“Uh, it… um… well…” Sherlock sounds completely befuddled.

“Sweetheart? Use your words, please.”

“It’s… well, it’s not that hot.” Sherlock sounds almost embarrassed, and the end of the sentence trails off to the point he’s practically muttering it under his breath.

John internally smirks. Externally, he uses his most placating Dom voice. “That’s how it should be, love. Since this is the first time we’re doing this, I’m starting out with the candle pretty high up. I’ll lower it each time, so it’ll get hotter as we go, and that’ll give you a chance to tap out if it gets too uncomfortable. Make sense?”

The harsh disappointment in Sherlock’s voice is almost palpable. “Oh. Yes, I suppose.”

It takes all of John’s willpower not to just lower the candle right down to the flesh and make Sherlock rethink the sass he’s giving him, but no, of course he’d never do that, that would be _incredibly_ irresponsible. Instead, he simply lowers the candle a full six inches before he tips it sideways again, this time aiming between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

Sherlock hisses lightly as the wax hits him, and he shifts unsteadily back and forth on his knees as it cools in the divot of his spine.

“Better?” John keeps his tone light, inquisitive.

Sherlock hesitates for a moment. “Warmer. But it mainly just feels… nice.”

John laughs, and he can hear Sherlock chuckling a bit too. “Well, how do you know I’m not trying to treat you nice, hmm? Maybe this is all part of my grand plan to soften you up before I do something _extra_ devious?”

Sherlock laughs, warm and bright, and the sound ignites a glow deep in John’s belly that has nothing to do with arousal. “No offense, John, but that doesn’t exactly seem your style.”

He’s calling him _John,_ but John doesn’t mind, here in this moment. Right now, while they’re trying this new experiment, it doesn’t feel like they’re Dom and Sub, they just feel like John and Sherlock, and John doesn’t feel compelled to push the point.

Once they’ve stopped giggling, John composes himself as quickly as possible. “Okay, okay, I’m going to try again, closer this time. Yes?”

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

John lowers the candle another six inches, and hovers it above Sherlock’s upper back, where the scarring is the worst. He’s not sure Sherlock will be able to perceive much sensation in this area on account of all the scar tissue, but he figures it’s worth a try.

He tips the candle once more, and draws a streak of wax perpendicular across Sherlock’s muscular trapezoids, following the outline of one of the deepest whip scars.

“GAH! Oh, FUCK!” Sherlock’s head jerks back and his entire body visibly tenses.

“...Sweetheart?”

“Nnngh. That’s… fuck, that’s it. Just… just like that.” Sherlock sounds breathless and a bit disorientated.

“Did that hurt?”

“I… yes, but… but in the good way, the way that I like. Fuck, do it again, please, _Captain…”_

A smile tugs at the corners of John’s lips as he lowers the candle once more. He finds the edge of yet another of Sherlock’s deeper scars, and tips the hot wax along the length of it, tracing the raised tissue at a slow, measured pace.

“AUGH! Oh, _Christ…”_ Sherlock twitches and jerks, then lowers his head practically to the floorboards, still careful to keep his hands within the lines. The wax changes course, running up to spill over his shoulder as he grunts and moans.

“Mmmm, yeah…” John leans back to peer down beneath Sherlock. Sure enough, his cock is at full mast, clearly reacting quite favourably to the new onslaught of sensation. “Oh, that’s beautiful love, so gorgeous, let’s go again…”

With that, John pours wax over two more of Sherlock’s scars, the image of the molten liquid hardening against the mottled tissue so goddamn erotic, John’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to contain himself.

“Fuck! Oh, fuck, Captain…” Sherlock’s voice has grown thick with increasing desperation, and John grins. Seems this was working, after all.

“You’re doing so well, love, turning me on when you take it so beautifully like this…”

 _“Gah,_ yes, Captain.”

John casually paints another streak down Sherlock’s lower back, and watches as Sherlock trembles and moans. And he can’t help himself; his pervy little lizard brain spins another fantasy, and suddenly, he’s never wanted anything more.

“You like this, love? You like being good for me?”

“Yes, Captain.” 

“That’s nice to hear. But you’ve made me greedy, love. Want you to suck me while I paint you up. Will you do that for me?”

Sherlock nods, his head still lowered, but apparently resigned to his fate. “Yes, Captain.”

John glances around desperately and grabs another throw pillow off the desk chair, placing it in front of Sherlock’s knelt form (no matter how horny he is, he knows damn well his knees would never forgive him if he flat-out knelt on the hardwood for more than a matter of seconds). He quickly maneuvers himself onto the pillow and pulls open his flies, freeing his turgid cock. Before him, Sherlock whimpers.

“Alright, love. Remember, since you won’t be able to speak, I want you to snap twice if you need me to stop for any reason; you’re allowed to move your hands if it’s to tap out. I’ll also be pausing to check in with you and will need your verbal consent. Understood?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice sounds thick and wet.

“Good. Lovely.” With his free hand, John reaches down and twists his fingers into Sherlock’s curls, pulling his head back. Sherlock’s mouth falls open, and he gazes up at John through his come-streaked lashes, a look of pure adoration on his face. John grins down at him, and guides his cock gently inside. 

“Alright, love. Just suck me, nice and light, yes, just like that. Hold your head nice and still, let me set the pace, _perfect,_ there we go.” John slowly begins to undulate his hips, holding Sherlock’s head steady by the hair. He doesn’t push himself in particularly far; he doesn’t want the blow job to be the main focus here, just a nice bit of stimulation while he tests Sherlock’s endurance. Sherlock keeps his jaw lax and lips soft, gently tonguing at the underside of John’s member, and John relaxes into the sensation.

“Mmmm, very, very nice, sweetheart. Now let me paint you up.”

And with that, John leans over and tips a thick line of wax directly over the whip mark that traverses Sherlock’s back, from his left shoulder nearly down to his right hip. It’s one of the worst marks from the torture he endured in Serbia; not the deepest by any stretch, but certainly the most prominent, and the one John knows Sherlock is particularly self-conscious of.

Sherlock screams around his cock, the sensation startling and exhilarating all at once. John moans and tightens his hand in Sherlock’s hair, issuing a quick series of short thrusts into his willing mouth as the wax on his back cools. Then he quickly pulls out, forcing himself to ignore the unfathomably erotic string of saliva that hangs off his throbbing prick as he gives Sherlock a chance to speak.

“Is this okay, sweetheart? I need a yes or no before we keep going.”

“Yes. Yes, _please…”_

That’s all the reassurance he needs. He stuffs his cock back into Sherlock’s mouth and leans over to pour a new streak of wax over the scar on Sherlock’s right shoulderblade.

Sherlock issues another muffled cry, but John doesn’t give him time to recover before moving the candle to his lower back to create a pool of wax in the divots that frame his tailbone. Sherlock lets out what might be a wail, but John simply takes advantage of the opportunity to push his prick as far down Sherlock’s throat as he can, earning him a series of helpless little whines that make the world narrow down to nothing but the sensations he’s experiencing in this very moment.

John tries to last as long as he can, but he only manages a few more stripes of wax before he’s forced to pull out and clutch the base of his cock to prevent himself from ejaculating. Sherlock shivers helplessly before him, peering up at him provocatively, his lips still shiny and parted, his back the spitting image of a Jackson Pollock painting. 

John takes a deep breath and steadies himself. He reaches down and cups Sherlock’s chin tenderly in his hand. “Oh, love, you’re being so good, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Captain.” Sherlock’s voice is hoarse from having his mouth and throat so full, and the sound of it makes John want to moan aloud.

“Are your hands still in place?”

Sherlock issues a frantic glance down, and John follows his gaze. Luckily, his hands have remained resolutely within the lines. “Yes, Captain.”

“Mmm, good. Then I think it’s time you get your reward, don’t you?”

Sherlock breaks into a dazzling smile. “Yes, please.”

John gives a curt nod and places the candle carefully to the side. Then he rises and strides around to take his place behind Sherlock. He drops down to kneel on the tartan throw, and grabs two plush handfuls of Sherlock’s pert arse. Sherlock moans.

“Oh, look at you, sweetheart, still so nice and open for me, aren’t you?”

“Mmmm, yes.”

John grabs the lube and squeezes some onto his fingers before reaching down to trace Sherlock’s rim, still stretched taut around the plug. “You ready to get fucked now?”

“Oh GOD, yes!” Sherlock sounds so needy and desperate, it goes straight to John’s groin.

“Well, if you insist.” With that, he grabs the plug by the base and pulls it out. He pauses to admire Sherlock’s dilated hole for only a moment before slicking up his own cock and plunging it inside in one swift stroke.

Sherlock wails, arching his back, causing the streaks of wax to crackle and split. “OH! God, please, please, please…” He’s wrigging frantically around where John’s impaled him, and he feels so desperately snug and tight, it takes all of John’s willpower to not just ream him into the floor then and there.

“Oh fuck, love, you feel so nice around me. Hold still now, shhh, be good…” To his mild surprise, Sherlock stills instantly. He’s breathing heavily and clearly bracing for the onslaught, but he’s at least minding John’s instructions.

John leans over and picks up the candle, wincing slightly as his member shifts uncomfortably in Sherlock’s vice-tight channel. He rights himself as quickly as possible, then takes a deep breath.

“You feeling good, love?”

“Yes, Captain.” Sherlock’s voice has gone high and breathy, and John can tell he’s close to orgasm.

“Think you can come untouched on my cock, or do you need my hand tonight?”

Sherlock swallows wetly. “I think I can… mmm, fuck, I’m close. I’m so close. I can… I can come untouched.”

“Okay, love. But you’ve been so good, if you decide you need my hand, just let me know and I’ll help you, alright?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Now, remember the rules. Hands inside the lines for me, yeah?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good. You can come whenever you want.”

And with that, John grips Sherlock’s shoulder with his right hand to hold him in place. With his left, he takes the candle and begins to pour a streak of wax from the top of his crack slowly up the column of his spine, lowering it with each passing inch, increasing the heat as he works his way up.

And then he begins to piston brutally in and out of Sherlock’s channel.

“OH! Oh, oh, oh, ohhhhhh!” Sherlock sounds shocked, but his body stays pliant and willing beneath John’s hands. John snaps his hips demandingly as the candle passes Sherlock’s lumbar spine and enters the thoracic, and Sherlock begins to shake so hard John’s almost certain he’s about to come apart.

But he doesn’t relent. He simply fucks into him harder and lowers the candle a bit more.

“Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhhhh!” Sherlock’s issuing strange, bitten-off grunts as he takes each thrust, and John redoubles his efforts as he feels Sherlock’s passage begin to flutter and constrict.

“That’s it, love. Come for me. Go ahead. Come on my cock. Just let go, love. Let go.”

“AUUUUGH!” Sherlock screams as the wax reaches his upper back and begins to streak down his shoulderblades. He gyrates his hips slightly, searching for the perfect angle, and then--

_There._

John recognises the way that Sherlock’s body tightens like a bowstring the moment his dick hits his prostate; it’s like some sort of magical ‘On’ switch that only John’s got the code to. He hammers against the tender nub of nerves with all the strength he has, and he watches in reverent awe as Sherlock’s body responds with magnificent grace.

“YES! Oh, God, CAPTAIN, fuck, fuck me, fuck me, there! There! Oh! OH! Ah ah ah ahhhh!”

Just as Sherlock’s cries escalate to climax, John empties the last of the wax onto his top vertebrae, completing the line up the length of his spine.

Sherlock comes.

He shudders and moans and wails his way through it, and John does his best to hold him steady as he continues to plunder his willing body with fast, urgent strokes, stimulating Sherlock through his ecstasy and prolonging it as long as he possibly can.

At long last, Sherlock’s cries die out to whimpering mewls. John presses himself balls-deep into his arse and ceases thrusting, instead opting for a slow, languid grind into his now-relaxed channel. Sherlock gasps in response, and lets his head sag down towards his chest.

“Oh, beautiful, sweetheart, so goddamn gorgeous.” John relinquishes his hold on Sherlock’s shoulder to guide his hand underneath him, where he gives Sherlock’s softening cock a few gentle tugs. Sherlock stiffens at first, then sighs as John stimulates him through the aftershocks in soft, brittle shivers.

“Mmmm. You finished, love?”

Sherlock hiccups gently, and when he speaks, John can tell he’s been crying. The thought sends shockwaves straight to his cock, which is still resting patiently inside Sherlock’s hole. “Yes, Captain.”

“And now, let me see… Where are your hands?” John leans around Sherlock to look down at the floor. Sure enough, his hands have remained inside the lines. “Oh, sweetheart, you kept them in place for me, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Captain.” Another hiccup.

“Mmmm, so good for me, so perfect, aren’t you?”

“Mmmhmm.” Sherlock seems to be drifting a bit beyond vocalisation. John decides to give him a break.

“Alright, love. You’ve been so very good for me, I’d like to reward you. You ready for me to claim you now?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Okay. Hold still now, just let me have you. Shhh. Shhh. I’ll make it all okay.”

And with that, he grips Sherlock’s hip with his free hand, and begins to maneuver his cock in and out of him in strong, firm strokes.

“Gah! Oh, ng, ng…” Sherlock sounds completely fucked-out, and John can tell he’s struggling to hold himself up.

“Love? You can drop down onto your forearms now if you’d like, no need to keep your hands still.”

“Th-thank you.” Sherlock takes him up on the offer instantaneously, and John realises how tired his shoulders must be after holding himself up like that for so long.

But this new position has forced his pert arse to tip up, offering John an even better view of the two perfect round orbs he’s currently penetrating that hot, delicious place in between. 

Another pervy scenario swims to the surface of John’s beastly little brain.

Oh, what the hell.

What did he have to lose?

He looks down at the candle still clutched in his left hand. There’s a new pool of melted wax forming. Just enough to--

He tips it over and begin to drizzle it over Sherlock’s upturned arse. Then he begins to thrust into him with gusto.

Sherlock throws his head back and wails. “OH! Oh fuck, oh, fuck, fuck me, fuck me, oh CHRIST! God, oh, oh please, Captain, CAPTAIN, FUCK! FUCK! OH, yes, GOD, come in me, please, please come in me, please…”

John lets a particularly thick stream of wax cascade over the sumptuous swell of Sherlock’s left buttock, causing Sherlock to shriek and clamp down deliciously around his throbbing member. The wax is mixing gorgeously with the streaks of dried come already coating his backside, and the sight of it is so erotic, John can’t hold back any longer.

“You want my come, sweetheart? Want me to come inside you?”

“AAAAAUGH, yes, please!”

“Beg me! Fuck, beg me, NOW!”

“GAH! Oh, please, Captain, please, fuck me, fill me up, bite me, claim me, make me yours, please, PLEASE, I need it, need your come, give it to me, please, please, OH!”

And God, Sherlock always knows _just_ what to say to push John over the edge. The way he begs so sweetly, Christ, John just can’t help himself.

He grabs Sherlock by the hair, yanks his head back, blows out the candle, empties the last of the wax onto his arse, and comes.

Sherlock screams and struggles a bit from the initial shock, but he submits after the first pulse or two has been pumped into him. As soon as John’s sure Sherlock’s done struggling, he leans down and bites his shoulder as he finishes orgasming into his tight channel, just the way he knows Sherlock loves best. Beneath him, Sherlock goes limp and pliant, his body receptive to everything John’s pushing inside of him. John rides out the last throes of his orgasm in a series of gentle thrusts, teeth still firmly sunk into Sherlock’s sweaty skin, holding him in place.

All too soon, it’s over. There’s nothing but the sound of their ragged breaths echoing in syncopated tandem, and the sound of his own pulse hammering relentlessly against his eardrums.

He relinquishes his teeth’s grip on Sherlock’s shoulder with a measured degree of reluctance, pulling back to lap gently at bite mark. This is a somewhat new part of their ritual when they Unwind, but he’d noticed when he and Sherlock had had an extended session recently just how much Sherlock enjoyed being bitten when he was at the receiving end of one of John’s orgasms. John himself found the sensation unobjectionable; it was heady and undeniably primal, and he can’t help but grin down at the red mark blossoming around the location of the bite. His cock gives an appreciative twitch of approval.

He presses a wet kiss to the mark and then pulls himself up onto his hands and knees. He checks the candle (still curiously clutched in his left hand, despite being extinguished) to make sure it’s out before carefully discarding it on the rug beside them. Then he gingerly grips the base of his cock and slowly withdraws it from Sherlock’s rapidly wilting body.

Sherlock gives a light grunt and fidgets slightly. He’s still dropped down onto his forearms, forehead resting against the floor, but he keeps his arse dutifully raised, knowing what will happen next.

“Oh, love, that was perfect. You with me?”

“Mmm. Sort of.”

John can’t help but smile at his honestly; Sherlock sounds pretty far gone. “That’s okay, love, we’re almost done. Any pain anywhere that I should know about?”

“No, John.” Sherlock’s voice is muffled slightly against the floorboards.

“Okay. Going to check you for tearing now. I’m just going to look first, is that alright?”

This practice is so familiar to them both-- John insists on checking Sherlock over every time they have penetrative intercourse. But he _always_ asks Sherlock’s consent before touching him in the aftermath of an encounter; sometimes Sherlock could be blisteringly sensitive (particularly if they’d been rough), and he wants to make sure that Sherlock is ready to continue with their ritual.

“Yes, okay.”

John reaches down and pries Sherlock’s cheeks apart. Sherlock hisses though his teeth.

“Sweetheart, you alright?” He peers down at his hole; it’s a little red, but no more than usual; certainly nothing for concern.

“Just… my arse hurts from the wax.”

“Oh!” John feels like a right prat, releasing his firm grip on Sherlock’s cheeks immediately. “Shit, sorry, love, I didn’t realise--”

“‘S okay, John, ‘s not that bad, just a little sore.”

“Right, right, of course, I’ll be more careful. Is it alright if I touch you inside now?”

“Mmmhmm.”

John doesn’t ask for him to elaborate; he knows Sherlock gets a bit shy about this part. Without fanfare, he reaches down and tenderly guides two fingers inside him.

Sherlock doesn’t really react as John twists and scissors his fingers lightly. He’d only taken Sherlock once tonight, so he’s not terribly concerned, but he’d still rather be safe than sorry. He delights in the feeling of his own come buried in this intimate spot, and gives himself a moment to enjoy the sensation, but pulls his fingers out before he can get too carried away. He looks down at them; no sign of blood.

“Okay, sweetheart, we’re all good. You ready to let me take care of you now? Get you nice and cleaned up for bed?”

“Mmmhmm.”

 

“Good, I’m glad to hear it.” He takes Sherlock gently by the shoulders and guides him back until he’s in an upright kneeling position. He looks incredibly dazed as their eyes meet for the first time in what feels like ages.

“Hi, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gives him a dopey grin, the kind he only gets when they’re Unwinding. “Hi, John.”

“Will you come shower with me, love?”

“Okay, John.”

John helps him to his feet extremely slowly. Sherlock’s legs and knees are predictably sore from kneeling for so long, so John makes sure to take his time with each transition as he helps Sherlock to stand before guiding him gently down the hall. Then he strips off his own clothes, flicks on the taps, and helps Sherlock climb under the spray.

“Ah!” Sherlock lets out a pained wince as the water collides with his wax-streaked back, and he twists away from the contact.

“Shit, sorry!” John reaches down and lowers the temperature of the water. Usually Sherlock preferred it to be verging on scalding when John was washing him down after a session, but John quickly realises that tonight would probably be an exception to that. A wave of guilt washes over him for not anticipating that sooner.

But Sherlock just giggles and blinks endearingly back at him through sopping wet ringlets. “‘S alright, John, relax. You didn’t maul me, it was just a little hot wax. I just need a second to adjust.”

“Oh.” John clears his throat, feeling slightly abashed. “Right. Okay. Then, um… by your leave.” He steps back to give Sherlock room to maneuver himself into the water at his own pace.

The awkward formality just makes Sherlock giggle again, which makes John giggle, and pretty soon the two of them are tittering helplessly as Sherlock slowly guides himself back under the steaming water, barely flinching this time around. 

“Okay. That feels alright, now. You can wash me.”

“Mmm, okay. Thank you, love.” John steps into the tub and gives him a searing kiss before grabbing the sandalwood soap and beginning the practiced ritual of soaping down Sherlock’s spent body.

As Madame La Roux had emphasised in her instructional video, applying the massage oil to Sherlock’s back prior to the wax play makes it extremely easy to get off; it breaks away in large chunks, leaving only the slightest trace of pinkened skin in its wake. The only place that’s a bit problematic is on Sherlock’s bum, which John hadn’t initially intended to apply any wax to (he’d just gotten rather caught up the moment), so that takes a bit more scrubbing and scraping. 

Sherlock leans forward with his forearms against the tiled wall as John works him over. “Mmm, what’s taking so long?” He sounds a bit whiny, and John does his best to pluck away the largest bits of wax, just to keep things moving along.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t put any oil back here before I used the wax, so it’s a bit stuck.”

Sherlock lets out a derisive snort. “Honest mistake, I’m sure.” He puts on a faux accent, doing his best ‘flustered John’ impression. “‘Oooh, goodness me, I seem to have forgotten to prep your arse, and now I simply must spend AGES back here tending to it! What a disaster!’”

“Oh, shut up, you.” John gives his arse a playful swat, and Sherlock smirks back at him over his shoulder.

John does a rather half-hearted job of clearing off the rest (any remainders, he figures, they can take care of tomorrow, after they’ve both had some sleep), then only quickly parts Sherlock’s cheeks to rinse away the come and lube between them. 

He doesn’t wash Sherlock’s hair tonight. After all, they’ve just wrapped a case, and he knows in situations like these, Sherlock only wants minimal aftercare before moving on to his traditional 14 Hour Post-Case Sleep Of The Dead. So once the most prominent bits of wax are removed and both of them are passably clean, he flips off the taps, towels both of them off, and guides Sherlock into bed, where he collapses with a grateful sigh. He barely protests as John rubs down his back and arsecheeks with arnica cream, then snuggles in cozily as John pulls the sheets up over his relaxed body.

John clambers into bed after him. He won’t sleep as long as Sherlock-- Sherlock’s ability to binge on sleep post-case was frankly unrivaled-- but he knows he’ll need at least a few hours before he can contact Molly to drop Rosie off. Content, he cuddles up behind Sherlock and holds him close.

“John?”

John starts a bit; usually Sherlock passes out so quickly following a post-case session it’s eerie. Having a conversation with him in such a state is unprecedented.

“...Yes?”

“What about the Grand Prize?”

John blinks into the darkness, completely lost. “...Sorry?”

“You said… you said if I kept my hands inside the lines, I would get the Grand Prize.”

John chuckles softly to himself; he’d forgotten he’d said that, and he’s somewhat stunned that Sherlock remembered. “What, was me claiming you not enough?”

“No, no, that was incredible, it was perfect, I just thought…”

“You just thought it would be something special?”

“Well… yes.”

“Mmm.” John presses a soft kiss to the nape of his neck. “Well, sweetheart, you happen to be absolutely right. Because the game we were playing tonight doesn’t have one part, it has three. Tonight was just the beginning. The Grand Prize for tonight is that we get to move on to Level Two.”

“Level… Two? Of what?”

John lowers his voice seductively. “Of determining how good you are at belonging to me.”

 _“Oh.”_ When Sherlock speaks, it’s in an awed whisper, and John can feel a shiver work its way up Sherlock’s spine.

“Does that sound good, love?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good.”

“...John?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“When do we get to play again?”

John grins into the darkness. “Soon, love. _Very_ soon.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I very diplomatically decided that, having gotten an inside glimpse into John’s internal sex life, we ought to explore Sherlock’s as well. And then this chapter COMPLETELY ran away with me-- it’s nearly 60 pages, so the final chapter in this installment won’t be posted for two weeks (instead of my usual one-week increments).
> 
> A few things to note about this chapter:  
> \--I touched on this concept a bit in the “Threesome” chapter of the “Fantasy” installment, but to drive the point home: In this series, I write John as straight with Sherlock being the singular exception. That said, Sherlock is gay, and he therefore occasionally fantasizes about John in sexual scenarios with other men. This is a scenario that is entirely self-created, and he doesn’t share these fantasies with John, as he knows it would probably make him uncomfortable. That said, he doesn’t feel any shame himself for having them because-- hell, it’s just a fantasy! Why not?  
> \--As you may have inferred, this chapter contains references to Sherlock fantasizing about having sexual encounters with men who are not John. If that concept squicks you out, please go ahead and skip it.  
> \--This chapter also contains references to several Original Characters from other installments of this series: Jude Law (not technically an OC, but Sherlock’s celebrity crush on him is mentioned multiple times throughout this series), Victor Trevor (from “Absolution” and “Advent”), Aaron (from “Possession” and “Dress”), and Alice (who’s popped up here and there throughout). TBH, it’s not super necessary to know their backstory if you’re just here for the porn. But if you need context, I’d recommend going back and reading this series! It’s just a whole bunch of porn with plot. If you’re liking this installment, you’ll like the rest of it, I promise!  
> \--And last: PrEP is shorthand for Truvada, which is a prescription drug taken to prevent HIV infection. It’s primarily used by individuals who have unprotected sex with an HIV+ partner, or with multiple partners whose status is unconfirmed. To briefly state the obvious: The information in this installment about HIV exposure and PrEP timelines was gleaned from trusty ol’ Google. If you have legitimate healthcare questions about either of these topics, please talk to a healthcare professional-- don’t trust the ramblings of a random fanfic author!

Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat, and he’s unable to bite back the moan that follows. He adjusts his weight ever so slightly, allowing himself to undulate his hips with just a _bit_ more force… not enough to bring himself to the edge, no, not yet, but closer, mmm, _closer..._

John’s hands feel warm and firm on his hips. John’s not setting the pace, no, he’s let Sherlock take the reins for the time being, but even so, the sensation of his palms against Sherlock’s oscillating waist is grounding and affirming in a way he can’t quite quantify. Sherlock bites his lip and zeroes in on that pressure-- of John holding him, not _commanding_ him, just _holding_ him, _feeling_ him, a reverent witness as Sherlock seeks his pleasure. John’s hands anchor him, so Sherlock can let himself go.

He forces himself to blink his eyes open. He’s not quite sure when he’d shut them, honestly, but that hardly seemed to matter now. When the scene before him swims into focus, he can’t help but let out yet another wanton groan.

He’s on top of John, facing away from him, riding him in a slow, sensual rhythm. A few months ago, John (clever, _perfect_ John) had had the marvelously inspired idea to move the full-length mirror from the corner of the bedroom to the wall facing their bed. He’d initially put it there for a session (to make Sherlock _watch_ as John took him apart piece by piece), but afterwards, neither of them had taken the initiative to put it back. Instead, they’d quickly discovered the endless benefits of having a mirror facing the bed: Eye contact while John was taking Sherlock from behind! New angles for observation in missionary position! And a seemingly endless myriad of additional voyeuristic opportunities that had been cropping up ever since.

And _mmmm,_ this morning they were a sight to behold, indeed. Though Sherlock (disappointingly) can’t see John’s face (since he’s lying down), the mirror _does_ provide a delicious new angle from which to observe John’s flexing thighs and curling toes as Sherlock raises and lowers himself onto his rock-hard shaft. Sherlock likes how slim his own hips look framed by John’s strong hands, his own porcelain skin tone offset by John’s ruddier hue. He likes that he can see John’s cock from this angle, thick and solid and wet as it disappears over and over again between Sherlock’s parted cheeks.

And truth be told, he quite likes how his _own_ cock looks. It’s red and hard and leaking profusely as it bobs in front of him in time with his motions. He hasn’t even touched himself yet, but his balls are already drawn up tight, the pulsing ache thrumming deep inside them as he guides himself slowly, carefully closer to the edge.

“Mmmmm, _God, Sherlock,_ yes, love, just like that… mmmmm!”

Sherlock smirks to himself and adds the slightest swivel of his pelvis to his next downstroke.

“NGH!” John’s hands tighten around his waist, and he thrusts demandingly up into Sherlock’s body, catching him a bit off-guard and disrupting his carefully-set tempo.

“Ah!” Sherlock lets his head fall back and digs his fingers into John’s thighs, bracing himself as John issues a series of sharp, well-aimed thrusts directly at his tender prostate. “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!”

But before it can get too far, John relents, relinquishing control back to Sherlock as John resettles into the mattress with a contented chuckle. 

Sherlock grins to himself. The gesture is just so _John_ \-- to let Sherlock have all the power, set the pace, focus on his own pleasure… but then to remind him _ever so politely_ that John ‘Three Continents’ Watson would be _more_ than capable of taking the helm at any point, should Sherlock so desire it.

Sherlock resumes raising and lowering himself on John’s turgid prick, a bit faster now, and reaches down to give his own cock a tentative stroke. He hisses through his teeth at the contact. _Fuck, he’s close--_ closer than he thought. He’d wanted to make it last this morning, but hell, it all feels too damn good. 

Oh, well. Nothing for it, then. With a resigned sigh, he shifts his weight forward to free up his other hand, which he brings to his balls and gives them a light tug. He grunts as the pleasure zings up his spine, and behind him, he can feel John gasp--clearly the sensation had just caused his passage to tighten around John’s cock.

“Mmm. John, I’m-- I’m close.”

“Nnnngh, alright, love. Let’s make you feel good, hmm?”

“Oh, fuck yes…” Sherlock barely whispers the words before he begins jerking his own cock in firm, fast strokes. His other hand squeezes and fondles his balls, magnifying the pressure in his shaft by tenfold. He can feel himself begin to leak precome in earnest, and he flicks his thumb over his slit with each stroke, spreading the moisture over the head, the sensation nearly cloying in its intensity.

Beneath him, John bends his knees and plants his feet firmly on the mattress to give himself better leverage. Then he grabs Sherlock tightly by the waist, and begins to drill up into him with abandon.

The first few thrusts miss their mark, but the fourth hits Sherlock’s prostate dead on, and he keens as pleasure ricochets through his body. John makes a satisfied sound and doubles down on his efforts, pounding up into Sherlock with all of his considerable strength. Sherlock cries out and strokes his own cock faster, harder, nearly to the point of pain. Everything feels so goddamn _good,_ from his hand on his cock to the pressure in his balls to the reaming his arse is taking, he nearly chokes on the ecstasy of it all.

Then he looks in the mirror.

And God, it’s perfect.

He’s bouncing on John’s cock, John roughly manhandling his body as he fucks up into him, and Sherlock looks so wanton and dirty with a fat prick up his arse and his hand on his balls as his throbbing cock leaks all over himself--

“GOD, John!” He doesn’t even form the words, not really, but it’s the only phrase that comes to mind before his Mind Palace whites out and his hard drive ejects and he’s swept away in a roaring tide of hormones and adrenaline.

He comes to as John’s rolling him onto his stomach and gently pulling out of him. His heart is galloping in his chest, and he can still hear his own pulse thundering against his temples. He’s shaking and sweating and he feels so fucking _high,_ it’s _perfect,_ God, he’s _perfect…_

He feels John nuzzle the spot just below his left ear, the one that always makes him twitch and giggle. He can’t help but chuckle before burying his face coyly into the pillow, and John takes the opportunity to pepper the back of his neck with lavish kisses as he runs his hands soothingly up and down Sherlock’s back.

“Feel good, love?”

Using what little strength he feels he has left in his body, he turns his head to meet John’s eye. “Oh, God, yes.”

John grins back at him. “Good. You alright to keep going?”

_As if he even has to ask._ But John’s always a gentleman, and Sherlock secretly finds it ever so slightly endearing (though he’d never admit it). “Mmmhmm. Yes, please.”

John’s unable to hide his enthusiasm. “Excellent. You comfortable?”

Sherlock assesses his transport. He’s face-down on the bed, legs and arms splayed out a bit haphazardly. He vaguely notes that his stomach, cock, and hand are all a bit sticky (why wasn’t John fussing about the damn bedsheets? Oh, right, it’s Sunday morning, laundry day, so for once John wouldn’t be tetchy about getting come all over the sheets), but otherwise, he has no complaints. “Yes. Very comfortable.”

“Good.” John leans down and presses another kiss to the nape of his neck, causing his skin to erupt in gooseflesh, and Sherlock shivers. John just giggles, gently presses Sherlock’s legs apart, positions himself between them, and guides his cock back inside.

Sherlock sighs happily as John begins to thrust. 

This part-- this bit right here-- is what, in his opinion, makes John Watson such an exceptional lover. In Sherlock’s (admittedly limited) past experiences, he’d found that people always projected their own sexual desires onto their partners. If Sherlock mentioned any of his own proclivities and they didn’t align, well, they were simply disregarded, and Sherlock was always too uncertain and self-conscious to say so.

So when he found out that John was a _stamina_ man, he thought he’d be in for a world of trouble. He knew what _stamina_ men were like; they prided themselves on their longevity, and went to great lengths to prolong their partner’s pleasure in kind. They’d hold their partners to their own standards, stringing them along as far as possible before finally entertaining the idea of release. To _stamina_ men, this is what made sex pleasurable.

So when Sherlock had explained to John (in awkward, stammered sentences), that he often preferred to come _fast_ and then bask in the afterglow, he expected John to dismiss him outright. Frankly, at the time he’d been a bit stunned that John had even brought it up; it was still early on in their sexual relationship, back before the Fall, when talking about _anything_ sexual that was happening between them had felt inexcusably taboo. But John had asked him point-blank if he was doing something wrong; he’d noticed Sherlock came very quickly after initial contact, and he’d wondered if perhaps he was overstimulating him.

And so Sherlock explained to him, as briefly and blandly as he could, that he _liked_ the feeling of being used after he’d attained completion. He liked feeling wrung-out and spent and yet somehow still deviantly aroused. He’d struggled to explain the sensation; he wasn’t still _turned on_ , per se, but he remained _aroused_ in a vague, nebulous sense that made him feel _desired._

And John had _listened._ Not only had he _listened,_ but he’d accommodated Sherlock’s request, and had soon after started bringing him to orgasm fast and hard within minutes, then indulging them both in long sessions of languid, sensual sex in the aftermath. 

Turned out, not only did Sherlock adore it, but this had also led to the discovery of Sherlock’s criminally short refractory period. Lucky turn-up, that.

But this morning, Sherlock’s fairly certain he’s not going to get hard again. Instead, he lets himself relax and enjoy the sensation of John using his body to bring himself pleasure.

“Ohhhh, mmmm, fuck, that’s lovely…” John maneuvers himself in and out of Sherlock’s channel in strong, solid thrusts, and Sherlock feels a warm patch between his shoulderblades where John’s currently resting his forehead. 

Sherlock hums in affirmation and spreads his legs a bit further, allowing John to sink deeper inside. John moans and licks a wet stripe up his spine before increasing the pace of his thrusts by twofold, and Sherlock rolls his back as he gasps in sympathetic arousal.

It doesn’t take long from there. One of John’s hands disappears from beside Sherlock’s head to grip the headboard, improving his leverage and allowing John to pummel into Sherlock’s body with unprecedented vigor. Sherlock responds in kind, his hands flying to hold onto the slats of the headboard, muscles locking out to brace himself against John’s advances.

“OH, fuck, yeah, GOD, yeah, that’s it, fuck, fuck…” John sounds breathless, his voice gone low and wild, punctuated by his thrusts.

Sherlock tips his hips up, angling his pelvis at that perfect angle, the one he knows makes his channel clench up around John’s cock like a vice. This position doesn’t turn him on, per se-- it actually angles John’s cock _away_ from his prostate-- but he fucking _loves_ the way he can _feel_ John’s reaction to it, _every damn time._

“Oh JESUS, FUCK! Yes! God, yes!” John proceeds to slam into him with all of his considerable strength, and Sherlock’s arms begin to shake from the strain of bracing himself against the headboard.

“Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” Sherlock throws his head back as John pistons into him, the sounds he’s making punched up out of his willing body completely outside of his control. “AH! John! Ah! Ah! AH!”

“Yeah, yeah, OH, SHERLOCK, FUCK! YES! I’m coming, I’m coming, FUCK, I’m--”

Sherlock spreads his legs as far as he can, and closes his eyes.

And then… nothing.

God damn it.

He feels the wind sucked out of him like a deflating balloon.

Damn it.

Above him, John moans as he lavishly grinds his still-twitching cock into Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock huffs an exasperated sigh, and waits for him to be done.

Finally, John’s apparently finished. John pulls out of him with a contented hum, and then leans down to press a gentle peck against Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock glowers and buries his face in the pillow.

“You alright, love?”

“Hrmph.”

“Alright if I check you over really quickly?”

“Fine.” His response is muffled by the pillow, but John takes it in stride. He feels John gently prod his passage with two fingers, then withdraw them.

“All good.” John sounds unforgivably cheerful as he swings his legs off the bed and stands up. Sherlock turns his head just in time to see John rolling off the condom and striding towards the bathroom.

This was hateful. All of it.

Nearly three weeks ago, they’d been in pursuit of a perp when things turned nasty. Initially, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary: The perp had pulled a knife on Sherlock, John had punched him in the face, the perp got a bloody nose, Sherlock got him in cuffs, end of story. It wasn’t until they were giving their statements afterwards that John even noticed the gash on his arm. It was bleeding, though not much, and it wasn’t until John was waiting to be stitched up at the A&E (as the gash was on his left arm, and he flat-out refused to let Sherlock stitch it up) that the gravity of the situation really struck home for Sherlock.

“We should pick up some condoms on the way home if we still want to celebrate after this,” John had muttered in a low voice.

“Condoms? Why?” Sherlock refused to lower his own voice, ignoring John’s flinch at the raised eyebrows of the other patients in the waiting room.

“Because, Sherlock, there’s a small chance I may have been exposed to some blood-borne pathogens. Nothing that would take effect as soon as tonight, obviously, but for the next few weeks, we’ll just need to take some extra precautions until I can be properly tested.”

Sherlock pulled a face. “Extra precautions? Come on, John, the odds of the perp being infected with something, the odds of you _contracting_ it through something as minor as an abrasion--”

“They’re low, but not non-existent.”

“But John--”

“Sherlock, no. Listen to me. This isn’t just about us anymore, remember? We need to be responsible, for ourselves _and_ for Rosie. And as much of an anomaly as it would be for me to contract anything, we need to be smart about this.”

Sherlock had pursed his lips, but acquiesced. “Fine.” After all, how bad could it be?

As it turned out, fucking _horrible._

For one, John was insisting that they wait FOUR WEEKS until he could receive accurate test results. That didn’t initially seem like a deal-breaker; after all, he and John only had penetrative sex (on average) once every 12 days, so it seemed like a fairly surmountable obstacle. But it had soon after been revealed that John was unwilling to let ANY of Sherlock’s membranous tissue come into contact his bodily fluids during that time, making even blow-jobs sans condom a no-go. Sherlock had tried fellating him with a condom on, but he’d found it so disappointing he’d given up halfway through (much to John’s chagrin).

And the sex. Dammit, the SEX. He and John had been having unprotected sex since the third time they’d engaged in coitus, ages ago, back before the Fall. Even then, it had been at Sherlock’s insistence that they both get tested and ditch the condoms; despite having been new to penetrative intercourse at that point, Sherlock had ALWAYS been a bit fixated with come, and the idea of taking John’s inside of him was indescribably erotic. Luckily, it had been as good as every fantasy he’d ever had about it-- hell, it had been _better._

Now, denied the pleasure of this proclivity, it somehow made Sherlock that much _hungrier_ for it. Being denied made him horny as hell, which made him jump John, who willingly played along until it was time for the main act. Then he’d roll on a condom, fuck Sherlock to (THOROUGHLY UNSATISFACTORY) completion, Sherlock would feel denied and bereft, and the whole cycle would start again.

It was hateful, the lot of it.

Sherlock sighs dramatically, begrudging his current lot in life.

Just then, John moseys back in from the bathroom, carrying a warm, wet flannel, which he flings in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock catches it despite himself (damn his reflexes) and pulls himself into a sitting position, crinkling his nose in disappointment. What a horrid start to the day.

John gives him an amused once-over. “You alright, love?”

Sherlock purses his lips and says nothing. He pretends to be very fixated on wiping the come off his chest and abdomen.

John comes and perches beside him on the bed. “Sherlock. Talk to me please. Is this about the condoms again?”

Sherlock shoots him a piercing glare, then returns his attention to cleaning himself. “Maybe.”

“Come on, love, only twelve more days! Ten more until the test, then two for the results. Then I’ll come in you all you like.”

“Doubtful.” Sherlock mutters it under his breath, but he still detects the hint of warning in John’s voice when he responds:

“Careful what you wish for, there.” 

Despite himself, Sherlock shivers.

Beside him, John’s voice returns to a normal, conversational tone, and he reaches out to cheekily ruffle Sherlock’s tousled hair. “After all, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “That’s utter rubbish, John. Have you any idea how much I’m suffering over here?”

John cocks an eyebrow in amusement. “How much?”

“Yesterday I honestly asked Aaron how long it would take PrEP to start working.”

John’s eyes narrow. “What did he say?”

“Twenty days. So not worth it.” Sherlock peers over at him and noticed that the lines on John’s forehead have grown pronounced. Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned--

“Why were you asking Aaron about PrEP instead of me? I _am_ a doctor, after all.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Honestly, John could be so _sensitive_ about this stuff. “Because he’s on it. So I figured he’d know.”

John’s eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline. “Oh. I didn’t… I didn’t realise he was seeing somebody.”

Sherlock has to bite back a smirk. For all his machismo swagger, John could be such a _prude_ sometimes. “He’s seeing a couple of _somebodys,_ and the occasional _anybody_ , so he decided he’d be a good candidate to go on it.”

John pauses for a beat. “He’s still using other protection, though, right? PrEP doesn’t guard against--”

“Oh my GOD, John. Aaron is an adult man. Not just an adult man, he works for MI5. He knows how to take care of himself.”

“You know, just because someone is _intelligent,_ it doesn’t make them _smart._ Aaron’s still pretty new in town, he’s freshly out of the closet, and I just want to… I want to make sure he’s safe.”

Sherlock’s heart does a weird, annoying melty-thing in his chest. For all of John’s outward hostility towards Aaron, he’d been incredibly indulgent of Sherlock’s burgeoning friendship with him. Not only that, but Aaron _was_ quite a bit younger than either of them, and Sherlock _had_ noticed that he was still rather prone to the occasional youthful indiscretion.

He gives John his warmest smile. “That’s rather sweet of you, John Watson. But don’t worry. I’m keeping an eye on him.”

John returns his smile, the warmth seeping back into his eyes. “I know you are. You’re a good man, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, shut up. Can’t have you ruining my reputation with accusations like that.”

John waggles his eyebrows. “Mmm, _no,_ certainly wouldn’t want to damage your _international_ bad-boy reputation…” He leans forward and their lips meet, all heat and warmth and _home._

“Adda! Serrock! Serrock! Morning! Morniiiiing!” Rosie’s voice chimes over the baby monitor, snapping them back to reality.

John rises to his feet, shaking his head. “Alright, duty calls. You going to shower?”

Sherlock looks down at his come-streaked abdomen and the unsalvageably soiled flannel in his hand. “Mmm. Probably should, yeah.”

“Good. Toss the sheets in the washer when you get up, yeah?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Of _course_ John was already on about the bloody laundry, it wasn’t even 8AM--

But then John plants an affectionate peck on his lips and disappears down the hall and up the stairs, and Sherlock can’t help but note that even after John leaves… he can’t stop bloody smiling.

***************

Later that evening, Sherlock purses his lips as he types furiously into his phone. He’s not aware that he’s scowling until he feels John’s hands on his shoulders, and a firm kiss being planted on the top of his hair. He tilts his head back to blink up at John, who’s peering down at him over the back of his chair. 

“Everything alright over here?”

Sherlock gives a half-hearted shrug. “I suppose so. I may need to go to Edinburgh tomorrow.”

“Edinburgh, eh? What’s up there?” John meanders over to his own chair and plops himself down, picking up the newspaper and a fresh cup of tea off the end table. Sherlock looks down and is startled to find there’s an identical piping hot cuppa resting in his own hand… odd, John must have put it there when he wasn’t paying attention. He takes a grateful sip and turns his attention back to John.

“The headquarters of a pharmaceutical company. They want to pay me to come up and run some experiments for them.”

“You couldn’t do the experiments locally? I mean, I guess I could handle Rosie on my own for a few days, but still, things are easier with you around.”

Sherlock smiles remorsefully-- it pleases him to know that John and Rosie _need_ him like that. “I wish I could, but the materials involved are quite sensitive.”

John looks unconvinced. “And you’re the only one who can run the experiments?”

Sherlock issues a withering sigh. “Unfortunately, yes. I patented the process my first year at Cambridge, so I still possess the exclusive rights.”

“You… patented… never mind, ‘course you did. Do you _want_ to go?”

Sherlock takes a moment to mull it over. “I don’t particularly want to leave London, no. But they _have_ offered me a bit of money, and it’ll take less than two weeks, so…”

“How much money, dare I ask?” 

Sherlock knows why John is inquiring: Sherlock tended to find finances rather dull and beside the point, so he generally left it to John to determine whether something that Sherlock personally considered tedious was, in fact, a decent proposition.

He tells John the number. John spits his tea all over the newspaper. 

“Bloody hell, fuck it, give me your phone, I’m texting them back on your behalf and saying that you’d be _honoured_ to take the gig. We could pay for a royalty-calibre nanny for Rosie with that amount.”

Sherlock pulls a face. “But you _wouldn’t…”_

John shoots him a lopsided grin. “No, ‘course not. I’ll work something out between Mrs. Hudson and Molly and the daycare centre. And perhaps your parents would want to take her for part of the week?”

They dive into the nitty-gritty of sussing out logistics for Sherlock’s departure. Time was, Sherlock would have simply waltzed off, head in the clouds, and left John to deal with whatever mundane drivel needed to be handled in his absence, but things were _different_ now. They work in tandem to line up child care for the hours John’s at the clinic, and Sherlock’s mother is all too happy to take Rosie for a long weekend, alleviating some of the strain on John’s time. 

By the time it’s all sorted, it’s well past midnight, and John announces he’s ready to turn in. Sherlock halfheartedly tosses a couple of odds and ends into his suitcase before giving up and crawling in after him; the rest he could pack in the morning before his flight. He curls up behind John and wraps his arms around him, inhaling deeply his familiar scent-- tea and biscuits and wool and mint, but with deeper notes of gunmetal and musk… His cock twitches in a near-Pavlovian response, and John issues a low hum in response.

“You want to go again?” The timbre of John’s voice sends a shiver down Sherlock’s spine.

Sherlock presses a kiss to the base of his neck. “Mmm. Wouldn’t mind.”

John rolls over to face him, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulling him close. “Okay. We still need to use a condom, though, remember--”

“Ugh, nevermind.” Sherlock flops over onto his back with a dramatic flourish, and he can hear John chuckling beside him in the dark.

“You know, I’ve been thinking.” John’s fingers are suddenly on Sherlock’s chest, tracing their way to his sternum to circle John’s dog tags resting there, cool and unassuming.

Sherlock doesn’t respond.

“Remember a little while ago, when I said we’d do a series of tests to see how good you could be for me?”

Sherlock’s brain replays that night in vibrant technicolour: the extended kneeling, the ice, the wax, the brutal fucking… Christ, it had been glorious. And _then_ John had told him that was only the first test, and that there were more to come! Sherlock hadn’t believed his luck.

He suddenly finds his heart rate has increased by 26%. When he speaks, his mouth feels a bit dry. “Yes.”

“Well, I was thinking it might be time for another test.”

Sherlock swallows. “What… what kind of test?” His heart rate increases by another 7%.

“Well, this one will require a bit of negotiation, because it’s to do with orgasm denial.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinks up at the dark emptiness of the ceiling. He’s not quite sure where John is going with this; they’d played with orgasm delay plenty, but the only time John had used outright _denial_ on Sherlock and refused to let him come altogether, neither of them had reviewed the experience particularly favourably. He’s a little bewildered that John’s even bringing it up again.

John resolutely soldiers on. “Or maybe… maybe orgasm _delay_ is a better phrase, I don’t know, it’s all semantics anyway. How about I tell you what I’m thinking, and you let me know if it sounds good?”

“...Okay.”

“Okay.” John clears his throat and shifts a bit. His fingers are still tracing lazy circles on Sherlock’s chest, and they skim lightly over his nipple, eliciting a brief shudder. “So I’m thinking that while you’re in Edinburgh, you don’t let yourself come. If you start feeling tempted, you call me, and I’ll talk you out of it.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock mulls it over. He didn’t usually masturbate when he was on a case, but he wouldn’t be on a case while he was in Edinburgh, he’d be doing dreadfully boring and wholly uninspiring _lab work._ And when he was doing nothing but uninspiring _lab work,_ that generally gave him time to have lots of salacious fantasies about things he’d like to do with John (or things he’d already done with John, or things he was planning to do to John, the list was endless...). He wonders what it would be like, to go back to his hotel room after a long day of suppressing his deviant thoughts, and _not_ be able to seek relief. Despite himself, he shivers again.

John lets out an amused huff, clearly able to detect the gooseflesh rising on Sherlock’s skin. “It can be as intense or as casual as you want it to be. If you want to touch yourself, edge yourself, bring yourself to the brink and then make yourself hold back, you can do that. Or if that doesn’t sound appealing to you, you can just… abstain. I’d leave it entirely to your discretion.”

Sherlock clears his throat and shifts a bit, pressing his pec up into John’s hand, seeking more friction against the nipple John’s currently nonchalantly fondling. His cock is quickly rising to full hardness. “That… ngh, that sounds nice.”

“Yeah?” John’s voice sounds warm and low in the dark, and Sherlock can tell he’s smiling.

“Y-yeah.” Sherlock hisses through his teeth as John pinches his nipple, then quickly redirects his attention to the other one.

“And you know what your reward will be?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock’s getting a bit starry-eyed; John’s digging his nails into the hardening nub on his chest, and it’s sending a direct signal to his already-eager prick.

“If you don’t come… I won’t come either.” He gives Sherlock’s nipple a twist, and Sherlock grunts, his legs spreading on instinct at the very thought. “Just think about it, love… you be good for me, and I’ll save all of myself for you. And by the time you get home, our twelve days will be up. And that means I can fuck you raw, just the way you want me to. I’ll put it _all_ inside you, every last drop, everything I’ve been holding in, and you’ll take it _all_ for me, won’t you?”

“Jesus… fuck, John, _yes…”_ Sherlock writhes and twists his hands into the bedsheets, and he feels John’s other hand close around his throbbing member and begin to stroke him in steady, firm pulls.

“Let me fill you up until you’re overflowing and messy...”

“God, yes, yes…” Sherlock whimpers as John twists his nipple again, the fire in his chest connecting with the one in his groin to form a molten pool of desire deep in his abdomen.

“Make you take so much come you’ll have me _deep_ inside you for days…”

“F-fuck, fuck…” Sherlock croaks out the words, spreading his legs further. John strokes his dick faster, flicking his thumb over the head, smearing the precome collecting there to ease the glide.

“Make you leak every time you try and walk, I’ll put so much in you, remind you who you belong to, who makes you feel this good--”

“Shit, fuck, I’m going to-- going to--”

John laughs. “Go on then, better make it good. This is going to have to last you a while.”

And with that, he gives Sherlock’s nipple one final ferocious pluck, then brings that hand down to cup the head of Sherlock’s cock as he jerks him off just the way he know Sherlock likes it best, and fuck, _fuck,_ Sherlock is _gone..._

He arches and spills into John’s palm, sucking in ragged breaths through clenched teeth as he struggles to stop himself from screaming out in bliss (the last thing they needed was to wake Rosie up at this hour…), and he rides out the aftershocks in sharp pulses of shattering pleasure.

Eventually, he feels himself begin to soften. He whimpers lightly as John pulls his hands away, and he can hear him stand up and pad toward the bathroom. There’s the sound of faucet running, and then moments later, John’s climbing back into bed, pulling Sherlock’s sated form towards him with a contented sigh.

 

Sherlock feels nearly delirious with fatigue, but still, he’s a team player. He summons all of his strength to form a sentence. “You need anything?”

“Nah, ‘malright. Besides, I think we managed to keep the bedsheets clean for now, and I don’t want to test our luck…”

“Oh my GOD, John, you and the damned _bedsheets--”_

“What? We just washed them today! It’d be a waste to soil them already…” John’s voice is indignant but laced with amusement, and Sherlock can’t help snicker.

“Fine, have it your way. At least you’ll be keeping them _nice and tidy_ while I’m gone.”

John snorts out a laugh and presses a kiss to the back of Sherlock’s neck, then together, they drift off to sleep.

***********

The third day in the lab is predictably tedious. The first two hadn’t been awful; his assigned workspace was blissfully isolated (so no need for insufferable chit-chat with colleagues), and the initial stages of his experiment required impeccable attention to detail, so his mind was well-occupied. He’d worked late both nights, then retired to his hotel and promptly fallen into a dreamless slumber.

The third day, however, had been agonising, filled with long periods of waiting while his specimens were incubating. He couldn’t leave them unattended, yet his mobile didn’t receive service in the lab, so he was primarily left alone with his thoughts. 

Sherlock never used to take assignments like this. They were dull, mundane, and failed to inspire him. It was mental gruntwork: rote analysis of dry data that was of no consequence to him on any level.

But lately, he’d come to reconsider that opinion. The hours were good and the money was better, and with everything he had going on at home (John, Rosie, the renovations on 221C), it wasn’t the _worst_ way to occupy his time. The extra cash made them less reliant on Sherlock’s trust fund, which was always a lingering concern in the back of his mind (considering that Mycroft had a nasty tendency to laud his executive control of the trust over Sherlock’s head whenever Sherlock did anything that displeased him), so having a bit more financial independence was refreshingly liberating.

That said, he sometimes resented the pathways his brain would travel when he was left to his own devices, impatiently whiling away the hours as he waited for the results he required.

Today, he thinks about the time back in Uni, when he’d first invented this particular experiment. It had been during his first year, a response to a rather routine assignment given by his chemistry professor. He’d spent a weekend devising the process as well as a device to execute the procedure, and the following Monday he’d presented his research to the professor, and asked him for additional time in the lab to fine-tune it all.

The professor had glanced up at him warily after reviewing his notes. “You… you came up with this yourself?”

Sherlock nodded, slightly bewildered by his reaction.

The professor pursed his lips. It was still early on in the semester, and Sherlock was filled with a growing sense of trepidation; perhaps he’d misunderstood the assignment, and done it all wrong?

“Can you explain to me how you arrived at the decision to use sodium perborate as the oxidizing agent?”

Sherlock did, in stammered sentences that seemed to catch in his throat. The professor listened intently, slowly nodding in encouragement. Sherlock’s confidence increased a bit, and he threw in a few additional details about his personal opinion on the shortcomings sodium bismuthate, just for clarification.

When he’d finished, the professor removed his spectacles and looked him squarely in the eye.

“Mr… Holmes, did you say it was?”

“...Yes, professor?”

“This right here--” he tapped on Sherlock’s manic scribblings in front of him-- “This is extraordinary. You should be very proud of this. Do you understand that?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. What he’d done wasn’t _extraordinary,_ he wasn’t capable of _extraordinary_ things. Mycroft was the brains of the family, just he and Mummy in their special little _genius_ club, and his father was the one with all the good sense and compassion. Sherlock was just the fucked up anti-social junkie fresh out of rehab who _somehow_ (through his mother’s family connections, presumably) had been admitted to Cambridge despite his recent troubles. He wasn’t _extraordinary._

He’d blinked back at the professor uncomprehendingly.

“I’d like to help you submit this work for a patent. Do you understand what that means?”

“Not… not really?” Sherlock admitted honestly.

“It means that you’d own the rights to this mechanism and process that you’ve outlined here. Once you’ve refined it, you could license it out to corporations, or research universities - whoever you’d like.”

“License it out?”

“Yes. Or, if you’d prefer, you could remain the sole executor, and use this as a building block for a new body of independent research. Does that sound like something you’d be interested in?”

He wasn’t quite sure what else to say, so he’d just nodded dumbly. His professor smiled, and for the first time since Alice’s death, Sherlock had experienced something that felt almost like _hope._

Looking back, he wonders what would have happened if he hadn’t let his life fly back off the rails. If he’d managed to stay clean, keep his head down. If he’d taken on that professor (what was his _name?_ He must have deleted it off his hard drive…) as his mentor, and allowed himself to be shepherded into the upper echelons of academic society.

If he hadn’t dropped out (fine, been kicked out) of Uni. If he’d pursued research in the field of chemistry. If he’d caved in to Mycroft’s meddling and joined a supper club, mingled with the other pupils with upturned noses and fat pocketbooks brimming over with family wealth. If he’d graduated and taken a job at a prestigious University, joined the Diogenes, went to the opera, perhaps dated a bit.

If when he’d met Victor Trevor at his godmother’s annual Garden Party, they’d met as equals, as peers. Would they still have exchanged numbers? Gone out to dinner? Would they have had sex? Fallen in love? Started a family?

Would he be working here in Edinburgh full-time, raking in cash from his cushy pharmaceuticals job while Victor tended to the children in their well-manicured townhouse and devoted himself to charity work? Would they holiday in Spain, squabble over whose family estate to return to for Christmas, obsess over admitting the children to Eton?

Would he have had a _normal_ life?

Christ, how utterly _tedious._

His phone buzzes, jolting him back from his fantasy. It’s the timer; the final incubation period for the day was over. He makes his way to the incubator and removes his tray of petri dishes, popping them into the environmental chamber for the night, then collects his belongings and trudges the four blocks through a misty dusk to his hotel. 

He feels distinctly unsettled. Thinking about Victor always churns up a vast array of carefully-suppressed emotions; he’s not quite sure what hallway in his Mind Palace malfunctioned and allowed him to wander from his harmless memories of a Uni professor to arrive smack-dab in the middle of the Victor Trevor Crime Scene, but he makes a mental note to remedy the situation the next time he’s undertaking routine maintenance.

He thinks perhaps he might be hungry. John (diligent, thoughtful John) had set two daily reminders on Sherlock’s phone for breakfast and lunch and stuffed his bag with protein bars when Sherlock wasn’t looking, so he’d been begrudgingly consuming them at the lab at the designated times. Dinner he’d forgone out of sheer apathy the past two nights, so the thinks it might be time to actually consume some substantial calories. He calls for room service then reclines on the bed and flips on the telly, resigned to an evening of relentless tedium.

An hour later, he feels full and rather lethargic. The telly has become unbearable, so he switches it off. He picks up his mobile and checks the time.

22:03. Surely not too late to call John.

“‘Lo?”

“Hi, John.”

“Hi, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pauses. There’s a reason he hates making phone calls and prefers to text; he’s horrible at small talk, and he’s got no idea how normal conversations are supposed to start.

He verbalises the first thought that manifests in his head. “Have you masturbated yet?”

John barks out a laugh, and Sherlock feels something warm and soft glow in his chest when he hears the sound of his voice. “Wow, getting straight to the point, eh?”

Sherlock shrugs to himself. “Wasn’t sure where else to start.”

When John responds, his tone is gentle and encouraging. “How about you ask me how my day was?”

“Okay. How was your day?”

“It was fine, thanks. Rosie skinned her knee at daycare, but she’s otherwise alright. We had mashed potatoes at dinner, which you know are her favourite, but about half of them ended up on the floor anyway. She went to bed without a fuss, and now I’m just watching telly and having some tea.”

“Hm.”

“... Something wrong?”

Sherlock bites his lip. “That’s how I’d have deduced your day went. Nothing out of the ordinary, no surprises, you sound relaxed and content, which indicates that work was fine and Rosie is well. So why am I supposed to ask you about it?”

John chuckles. “Dunno, love, that’s a good question. It’s just something people do, I guess.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I’d ask how your day was, but I’m using my prodigious powers of deduction to conclude it was fine, as well?”

“It was.”

There’s an awkward beat. Christ, Sherlock hates talking on the phone.

John clears his throat. “So to address the reason why you’re _really_ calling, since clearly you’ve deduced all you need to know about my day, no, I haven’t masturbated since you left. Have you?”

“No.”

“Been tempted?”

“Been busy.”

“Ah. Well, are you busy right now?”

Sherlock’s cock gives an interested twitch. He shifts on the bed, pulling himself more upright. “No.”

“Mmm. Think maybe you’d like to touch yourself a little bit for me?”

Sherlock swallows. “All… alright.”

He can practically _hear_ John’s lecherous grin over the phone. “Mmm, good. You still in your suit?”

“Yes.”

“Put your hand over your cock and give yourself a little squeeze. Are you getting hard?”

“Yes, John.”

“Mmm, excellent. I want you to unfasten your belt and open your flies.”

“Oh--okay.” Sherlock complies thoughtlessly, his brain going hazy and blank as he zeroes in on John’s voice.

“Now take yourself in hand and give yourself a nice, firm stroke. How does that feel?”

“Mmm, _good,_ John, very good…” His voice has gone low, and there’s a distinct tremble to it. While it’s true three days was hardly the longest he’d ever gone without seeking relief, hearing John speak to him like this is suddenly reminding him of just how _good_ sex feels…

“Oh, that’s lovely. Now, set a nice, steady rhythm. Not too fast, let’s make it last, hmm?”

“Y-yes, yes, okay…” His hand begins to move briskly up and down his shaft as if on its own accord. Sherlock tilts his head back and spreads his legs a bit, uttering a low gasp.

“Lick your hand, then keep going. Make it feel nice, just like you do when you’re alone, yeah?”

“Yeah…” Sherlock’s response is barely a whisper as he wets his hand and resumes his ministrations. It’s becoming rather difficult to hang onto the phone, so he puts it on speaker and discards it on the pillow next to him.

“How does that feel, love?”

“G-good. It’s good.”

“Now I want you to tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“W-what?” Sherlock’s hand stutters a bit.

“What are you thinking about, Sherlock?”

Sherlock huffs a deep breath as he struggles to collect his thoughts despite the suffocating arousal elbowing its way to the forefront of his brain.

“I’m thinking about that time… that time you fucked me unprepared over the back of the sitting room sofa. We’d… we’d just-- ngh!-- we’d just wrapped a case, and you didn’t-- mmm, _fuck--_ You didn’t even give me time to take my coat off.”

“My, deep cut, hmm?” John sounds vaguely amused, and Sherlock understands why. The encounter he’s describing happened _years_ ago, back before the Fall, when their sexual relationship was still new and confusing and shrouded in secrecy, stifled with unspoken words.

“Wh-what can I say? It’s a classic.”

John bursts out laughing, and Sherlock can’t help but laugh too, but he doesn’t slow down his strokes as he continues to work himself over.

“And what makes you like it so much, hmm?”

“God, the… the way you manhandled me, fuck, you were so rough and demanding and made me feel so-- _fuck!--_ so _helpless,_ like I was… like I was just a plaything for you to use…”

“Oh, yes, keep talking, love…”

“When you stuck your cock inside me it hurt so much I thought I would pass out from the pleasure. It… God, it felt so _raw_ and _feral,_ like you just… like you just _needed_ to fuck me, you couldn’t wait, you couldn’t help yourself--”

“No, no, I couldn’t, love, I had to have you, right then and there, had to be inside you, so amazing, so brilliant, so gorgeous…” John’s voice is trembling now as well. Sherlock’s fairly certain he’s not touching himself, but he’s certainly aroused, and the thought send a shock wave up Sherlock’s spine.

“And then… ngh! Ngh! And you fucked me so hard I came untouched, all over the sofa cushions, and you… you just kept going, kept using me, and I just had to hold still and take it… oh, _Christ…”_

“Mmm, yes, yes, that’s it, don’t stop now, then what happened?”

“Then... _ha, ngghhhh…_ then you held me down by the back of my neck and… and had your way with me, until you… _unf, mmm…_ until you came in me, so hot and hard I thought I’d lose my mind, God, John, _God, oh!”_

“Mmm, yes, I remember how good you felt that night, you were so raw and tight on my prick, Christ, it was like your arse sucked the come right out of m--”

“GAH!” Sherlock releases his grip on his throbbing cock and fists the duvet, torso jackknifing upward as he fights the urge to ejaculate. The sensation had struck him so suddenly, for a moment he’s afraid he’s going to topple over the edge. “AH! AH!”

“Ooooh, easy there, Sherlock. You alright?”

Sherlock whimpers a bit as the feeling recedes, disappearing back over the horizon but still shimmering dangerously beneath the surface. He wills himself to take a deep breath.

“I’m… I’m fine. Shit. That was… close.” 

John chuckles darkly from the other end of the line. “Under control now?”

Sherlock takes a quick assessment of his transport, and clears his throat. “Um, yes. Yes, for now, but I think… I think that’s all I can handle tonight.”

“Mmm, that’s alright. I still had a rather nice time, didn’t you?”

Sherlock bites his lip. His cock is red-hot and throbbing angrily where it’s rising obscenely from his trousers, and his balls feel strangely swollen, but he must admit… the sensation is unobjectionable, when he thinks about the reward John has in store for him. “Yes. I suppose I did.”

“Glad to hear it. You’d best get some sleep, love. Want to call me again tomorrow?”

Sherlock agrees. They say their farewells, and he staggers out of bed to go take an ice-cold shower.

**************

They make a bit of a habit of it. Sherlock returns to the hotel after a long day at the lab, he eats an uninspiring dinner, he calls John and asks about his day, and then John has Sherlock masturbate while he recounts whatever devious memory strikes his fancy. After the third day, Sherlock begins to master his self-control a bit better, so John brings him to the brink twice more before letting him hang up. Sherlock moans and whines but secretly loves it, and he’s not at all mad when John ups the ante to four rounds the next night, _and_ the night after.

The next morning, he’s just on his way out the door to the lab when he receives a text.

INCOMING TEXT FROM: John Watson  
<14 October 08:21> Morning, love

Sherlock stares at his phone, puzzled. The message didn’t seem to warrant a response, so he’s about to pocket it when it buzzes again.

JW  
<08:21> I’m dropping Rosie with your parents tonight, and they’ve asked me to stay for dinner, so I’ll probably get home a bit too late for our nightly call.

Sherlock scowls. While he _objectively_ appreciates the fact that John gets on so well with his parents, it sometimes irks him how _easy_ he makes it look to be adored by them. Thick as thieves, the lot of them were, his parents fawning over _lovely, thoughtful, normal_ John and _precious, adorable, perfect_ Rosie, as though they somehow couldn’t comprehend how Sherlock the fuck-up had wound up with the two of them. Frankly, Sherlock often wonders that himself, but hell, that was _his_ miracle to ponder! His parents ought to keep their _nosy noses_ out of it--

He shakes himself out of it before he can slide down that slippery slope. His parents were just being _helpful,_ and the fact that they liked John was just a pleasant turn-up for all involved. 

He takes a deep breath.

SH  
<08:22> ok

JW  
<08:23> Will you be lonely?

...Sherlock blinks down at the screen. Was John really about to sext him _now?_ Despite himself, his cock feels a bit warm.

SH  
<08:23> Might be. What should I do?

JW  
<08:23> I think you should treat yourself tonight.

SH  
<08:24> ?

JW  
<08:25> Have a little fun without me.  
<08:25> But I expect you to report back and tell me how it goes.

Sherlock swallows hard.

SH  
<08:25> Alright.

JW  
<08:26> Looking forward to it.

That night, Sherlock lies in bed lazily stroking himself. He’d diligently eaten his dinner (he had a feeling John would be disappointed if he skipped it), smoked a half a cigarette out the hotel room window (hell, John _had_ said to treat himself), and now it was time to relax.

He lets his eyes flutter shut, and lets his mind wander.

He pauses outside the John Watson wing of his Mind Palace. Tempting to go back and simply relive an old favourite, but perhaps tonight he ought to indulge himself with something a bit more out of the ordinary? 

With a smug smile, he turns left and takes the staircase to his Fantasy Chamber.

He’s greeted by a very naked, _very_ eager Jude Law. He’s barely made it across the threshold before Jude is pushing him against the wall, snogging him senseless, slotting his thigh between Sherlock’s trembling legs to nudge eagerly at his burgeoning erection. Sherlock all but melts into his advances, and before too long, they’re both naked and moaning as they writhe between the bedsheets. Sherlock is topping, he’s taking Jude from behind, thrusting into his lithe, muscular form as Jude moans and grips the headboard, bracing himself against the voracity of Sherlock’s thrusts. He bends down to suck a love-bite into the side of Jude’s gorgeously-exposed neck, and he can feel Jude clench around him in response. _Fuck,_ he feels good, he feels so _fucking good,_ his channel stretched beautifully around Sherlock’s turgid cock, so _ready_ , so _willing…_ Jude throws back his head and screams--

“NGH!” Sherlock tears his hand away from his prick at the last possible second, eyes flying open, jolting violently back to reality. He gasps and arches, forcing himself to focus on the textured tiles of the hotel room ceiling, grounding himself as the desire to release recedes.

He fumbles for his mobile, and with quivering fingers, manages to type a message.

SH  
<21:13> 1

JW  
<21:14> Sorry, 1 what?

SH  
<21:14> Denied orgasm.

JW  
<21:15> For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, I am currently eating dessert WITH YOUR PARENTS.

SH  
<21:15> And I’m wanking off in my hotel room. Problem?

JW  
<21:16> Too many to list.

SH  
<21:16> Excellent. I’ll just carry on, then.

He waits for two minutes but John doesn’t respond, so he chucks his mobile to the side and returns his hand to his cock. He’s still aroused; not as close as before of course, but he’ll need to proceed with caution.

His eyes flicker shut, and he’s back in his Fantasy Chamber. Jude’s still naked in bed, but Sherlock decides he’d best not join him again; that would surely be flirting with disaster. Instead, he positions himself in the chair in the corner as a shadowy figure emerges and makes his way to the bed.

It’s a man, that much is clear. He’s tall and muscular, but his face is obscured for now. He leans down to cup Jude’s face in his hand, and Jude rises up to press their lips together, and they kiss and kiss and kiss. Sherlock’s hand finds its way to his own dick.

The man climbs into bed, gently urging Jude onto his back. Jude complies willingly, spreading his legs, his hole still wet and open from where Sherlock had been inside him moments ago. The man fingers him gently, and Jude arches and preens, his golden skin glowing, his blue eyes piercing and focused. A sigh escapes Jude’s lips and the man smiles as he stares down at him, mesmerised by the beauty before him. Sherlock strokes himself faster.

The man kisses Jude again, then gives his own cock a few firm tugs before lining it up and guiding it inside. Jude wails and the man moans as they both adjust to the penetration. The man rolls his hips and Jude spreads his legs further. The man begins to fuck him in earnest.

The man’s features are clearer now. It’s Aaron, strong and commanding and handsome, fucking into Jude as if it’s his singular purpose on Earth. Their coupling is frantic, verging on animalistic, as Sherlock watches with rapt attention as Aaron’s works his substantial girth into the man below him in forceful, demanding thrusts. Jude is issuing high, frantic sighs, and Aaron grins down at him as he takes Jude’s cock in his strong hand and begins to stroke him in time with his thrusts. Jude cries out once more and then he’s coming, _fuck,_ he’s coming--

“NGAH!” Sherlock sits bolt upright, hands flying to his sides as before him, his cock twitches and aches from the denied release. His toes curl into the top of the mattress, and he can feel sweat beginning to dampen his brow. His balls feel like they’re on fire, pulled impossibly tight against his body, and there’s a dull throb coming from somewhere in his pelvic region that makes him feel nearly nauseous with want.

“Mmm, fuck, fuck…” He mutters quietly to himself as he reaches down to give his balls and sharp tug; the spike of pain drives off the pleasure, and he heaves a sigh of relief.

He turns and takes a sip of water from the glass on the bedside table, then locates his phone and punches in a new message.

SH  
<21:25> 2

JW  
<21:27> FOR FUCK’S SAKE, SHERLOCK. I’m attempting to have a brandy with your father in his study.  
<21:27> This is not an appropriate time for you to be doing this.

SH  
<21:28> You told me to treat myself. I don’t see how your grim social itinerary for the evening should have any bearing on that whatsoever.

JW  
<21:29> THIS IS A BIT NOT GOOD.

SH  
<21:29> So tell me to stop.

<21:34> That’s what I thought.

Grinning smugly to himself, Sherlock nestles back into the pillows and closes his eyes, reality swirling and dissolving, revealing his Fantasy Chamber in its place.

To his surprise (and relief), John’s appeared. He’s standing by the side of the bed wearing his military fatigues, and an expression of vague disapproval. He peers down his nose at Sherlock, who finds he’s naked next to a similarly-exposed Jude. Aaron seems to have disappeared.

“Are you behaving yourself, sweetheart?”

Sherlock shivers, feeling rather vulnerable all of a sudden. “Y-yes, Captain.”

John purses his lips. “You treating our guest nicely?”

Sherlock blinks up at him. “I… I think so, Captain?”

John scowls. “You _think_ so? Well I _think_ you can do better than that, can’t you?”

Sherlock nods eagerly and clambers to his knees, awaiting John’s instructions. John gives him a pleased smile, and Sherlock feels a bolt of warmth run up his spine.

John tips his head appraisingly. “Suck him off. Make it good.”

Sherlock nods and scrambles into position between Jude’s legs. Jude reclines lavishly back against the pillows, tucking his hands behind his bed with a smug expression and a twinkle in his eye. Sherlock lowers his head, and swallows him down.

John’s voice is solemn and sure as he issues his commands. “That’s it, sweetheart, very nice. Not too deep, no, not just yet. Use your tongue a bit, very nice, there you go…” Sherlock bobs his head and lets his mouth fill with saliva; he knows John likes it when he gets messy, and he knows Jude will, too.

“Mmm, there we go. Jude, it’s alright, you can touch him if you like. Just don’t be rough unless I tell you to, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay.” Jude’s tone is light and casual. He feels Jude’s fingers tangle lightly in his hair, guiding him, setting the pace… he lets himself be controlled.

“Mmm, that’s lovely, you’re being very good, sweetheart. Now, do you think you’d like to be fucked?”

“Mmmhmm.” Sherlock struggles to respond over the mouthful of cock he’s currently servicing.

“Then we’d best get you ready, hmm? Up, up.” John gives him a gentle tap on his hip, and Sherlock rises onto his knees, keeping his mouth wrapped around Jude as he does so. He presents his arse readily, and groans as he feels the familiar sensation of John’s fingers slipping inside him.

“My, you’re awfully tight tonight, love. Jude, you’re in for a treat.”

“Fuck, I can’t wait.” Jude sounds almost infuriatingly casual, but he doesn’t cease the gentle tugs on Sherlock’s mane as he continues to work him over.

John adds another finger, and Sherlock can feel his eyes roll back in his head as he swallows Jude down, deepthroating him for the first time. Jude cries out and thrusts up into his throat, making him cough and sputter.

“HEY.” All of a sudden, Captain John is back, and he sounds ready to raise hell. “Jude, what the fuck did I tell you about that rough shit?”

“Right, right, sorry, got carried away…” Jude sounds properly abashed, but John sounds unconvinced.

“I’m not going to let you have him if you can’t control yourself. _I_ decide how he gets used, you understand that?”

“Yes. Sorry, yes, sorry…” Jude trails off, clearly embarrassed.

“Sweetheart, sit up and look at me.” Sherlock pulls away from Jude’s cock with a wet _pop,_ and he feels John’s fingers disappear from inside him. He turns to face John, who gives him a warm smile, the kind that tells him he is being _good._

“That was beautiful, love. You feeling good?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good. I’d like to watch Jude fuck you. Would that be alright with you?”

Sherlock nods determinedly. “Yes, John.”

John takes a step back and glances towards Jude. “Alright. Go ahead, then.”

Sherlock can feel Jude shuffle up to take his place behind him. The next thing he knows, he’s being impaled in one strong, forceful stroke.

“AH!” His eyes fly open and he grips the bedsheets for all he’s worth. 

In front of him, John gives a sly smile. Sherlock locks eyes with him, willing him to understand what he’s thinking: _Thank you._

He feels Jude’s hands grip his shoulders tightly, and the next moment, he’s being taken, fast and hard. He grunts and arches, making way for the intrusion, and Jude lets out a delicious moan as he sinks deeper into him. 

“OH! Christ, fuck, John, he’s perfect, he’s so fucking perfect, God, _God…”_

John stares down at him fondly. “I know, isn’t he just? _Brilliant, amazing, incredible...”_

Sherlock wails as Jude rocks into him, the sound punctuated by the force of his thrusts.

“Oh--oh fuck, John, I think I’m… I think I’m going to come…” Jude sounds like he’s hanging by a thread, voice laced with desperation.

John steps forward and crouches down to be at eye level with Sherlock. Sherlock lets out a pitiful whine, willing himself to stay focused while being taken so voraciously from behind.

“Sweetheart, is it alright with you if he comes inside you?”

Sherlock nods frantically. “P-p-p-please, Captain, _please.”_

John gives a satisfied nod and rises back to his full height. “Alright, Jude. You can come inside him.”

There’s a hoarse shout and a moan and Jude’s hands tighten on his shoulders, so tight they’ll leave bruises, but all Sherlock can see are John’s eyes, boring into him, watching him, _watching--_

_“FUCK! Omigod, God, God, shit, nnngh!”_ Sherlock squeezes the base of his cock as hard as he can, and his other hand flies up to tug on his balls. Shit, he’s so close, dangerously close, he blinks his eyes open to reveal that his member is so hard it’s nearly purple and it’s glistening with an obscene amount of precome. He grits his teeth and swears again as the throbbing in his groin radiates out to every nerve ending in his body. Shit, that was too far, he’d pushed it too far, now he’s just fucking _uncomfortable, fuck…_

The buzzing of his mobile is so unexpected he nearly jumps off the bed. He turns to glance down at it, hands currently occupied torturing his own genitals in the desperate hope of keeping his orgasm at bay.

INCOMING CALL FROM: John Watson

Shit.

He fumbles clumsily with the phone, but somehow manages to pick it up.

“Hello?”

“... Sherlock? You alright?”

“Hngh. Not exactly. Just… just let myself get a bit carried away is all.”

There’s a long pause. “Did you come?”

“No! No, just… let myself get worked up, and now I feel… weird.” His mouth is all dry and cottony and he feels like he might be getting a headache. He shifts uncomfortably on the bed, swinging his legs over the edge and taking a long swallow from his glass of water.

“Well, hope you learned your lesson.”

Sherlock gives his gradually-wilting cock a forlorn glance. “Maybe. For now. Where are you?”

“On the train headed home. You still a little worked up? I can tell you _all about_ my dinner with your parents, that ought to get you calmed right down.”

Sherlock smiles, despite himself. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

On the other end of the line, John chuckles. “Well, for starters, your mother was wearing a jumper with a _duck_ knitted into it. Now, say what you will about my wardrobe, but at least I’ve never resorted to wearing _fowl_ as a fashion statement. She made ham, which was excellent, but she also served creamed spinach, which Rosie decided she was _not_ particularly keen on, and…”

Sherlock relaxes, and listens.

*************

The rest of the week passes more or less uneventfully. Sherlock works late a few nights, but on those he doesn’t, he calls John and they chat about their day and then have phone sex. John doesn’t bring Sherlock to the edge more than once per call, though; as the days wear on, abstinence is admittedly becoming increasingly difficult for both of them, and John grows predictably cautious, careful not to lead Sherlock too close to the brink.

It’s after the conclusion of one such session. Sherlock is lying on the hotel bed, feeling a bit clammy and still aching from his denied release, taking deep breaths and focusing on John’s voice as he gently talks him down.

“You’ve been so good for me, love. Only two more days, hmm? And then you’ll be home.”

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably, tucking his still-rigid cock back into his pajamas. He makes a non-committal sound that’s somewhere between a grunt and a whimper.

“...And as good as you’ve been for me, I’ve been good for you, too. I want you to think about what that means as you fall asleep tonight, yeah?”

Sherlock can’t help but grin. “Yeah.”

“Good.” John sounds pleased. “Well, I’d best get some sleep… and you should, too.”

Sherlock sighs, but acquiesces. “Alright. Goodnight, John.”

“Night, Sherlock.”

He hangs up the phone and flicks off the light, then drifts off to sleep imagining just how amazing their reunion will be.

Everything goes a bit blurry and dark. Reality swims and swirls, and he sinks into the rhythm of his own breath, slow and deep in the darkness.

The next thing he knows, he’s in Victor Trevor’s flat. He recognises it instantly; the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the posh Chelsea street, the tasteful decor, and most of all, the sumptuous four-poster bed upon which he’s currently reclined. He and Victor had cohabited there for those few heady months back in 2006, when Sherlock was still oblivious to Mycroft’s interference in the whole affair. Those had been good days, he recalls. Well, until they weren’t.

But he’s back there now, he’s on the bed, and Victor is there with him, on top of him, moving inside of him. He feels _good,_ strong and solid, and he’s grinning down at Sherlock with that gleam in his eye that always made Sherlock’s stomach twist and flip. Sherlock utters a sigh that quickly becomes a gasp as Victor’s thrusts become more demanding; he spreads his legs further and hooks his ankles at the small of Victor’s back, pulling him deeper still, and Victor’s eyes flutter shut as he loses himself in the sensation. Then he’s smiling down at Sherlock again, tenderly this time, and leans in to capture his lips in a slow, sweet kiss.

They kiss and kiss as Victor continues to move inside him, bringing him closer and closer to the edge with each intoxicating oscillation of his pelvis. Sherlock wants to cry out, but Victor just kisses him harder, tongue stifling Sherlock’s breath, forceful and strange. Sherlock tries to turn his head to the side, but the next thing he knows, there’s a sharp pain in his lip and the taste of _blood,_ and what the _hell,_ had Victor just _bitten_ him?

He recoils in horror and finally manages to extricate his mouth from Victor’s advances He starts to admonish him, but the words die on his tongue.

Because when he looks up at the figure moving on top of him, it’s not Victor Trevor at all.

It’s Moriarty.

And he’s _laughing._ He’s laughing and laughing and fucking into Sherlock with a brute force devoid of any tenderness, and Sherlock is struggling and arching, but _fuck,_ it still feels _good,_ he still _wants it,_ and Moriarty _knows_ it and he’s laughing and laughing and Christ, Sherlock can feel his own cock throbbing as the assault on his prostate sends him rocketing towards release, and he can’t, he can’t, he was going to come--

Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he sits bolt upright, flailing in the darkness. It takes him a moment or two to quantify his surroundings before reality racks back into focus.

Hotel room.

Edinburgh.

_Shit._

He’s shaking and his breaths are coming in harsh, ragged gasps. He feels like his heart is lodged in his throat, and he can barely hear over the rush of blood in his ears. He’s hard, but the sensation of arousal feels distant and foreign, a weight between his legs that he can’t completely quantify.

He throws off the covers and flicks on the light, blinking rapidly as he attempts to ground himself. Before he can even contemplate what he’s doing, he’s got his mobile in his hand, and he’s frantically wiping the sweat from his clammy palms onto the cheap hotel bedsheets so he can punch the command into the screen.

“‘Lock?”

“John?”

“You alright? It’s three in the morning.”

“I… yes, um, I…” Sherlock suddenly realises that ‘I had a bad dream’ is a rather odd sentence to be uttered by a man of his age to an intimate partner. He shifts and shivers, and the silence surrounding him feels suffocating.

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?” John’s tone sounds urgent now, worried. Sherlock feels like a git; he shouldn’t have called him, this was so _stupid…_

“‘M sorry, I… I had this weird dream, and when I woke up, I felt… I felt ill, and I just… needed to talk to you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called--”

When John responds, his tone is so disarmingly _warm_ that feels like a balm, soothing him instantly. “Stop right there. It’s alright, love, it’s fine, it’s all fine. Do you want to tell me what the dream was about?”

Sherlock considers it. “Not really.”

John chuckles, and despite himself, Sherlock smiles in response. “That’s okay. Have you had a drink of water yet? That always helps me when I wake up from a bad dream.”

Sherlock turns to clasp the glass of water sitting on the bedside table, and takes a sip. It’s strangely soothing. He takes another. “That… that actually helps, thank you.”

“Well, I happen to know a thing or two about how to recover from nightmares.”

“Lucky turn-up, that.”

“And just think, for the low, low price of a few years of intensive therapy, you, too, could learn these techniques!”

Sherlock laughs, a real, honest laugh, and he can hear John on the other end of the line, and he’s laughing, too. The sound of their intermingled laughter is beautifully comforting. “Eh, think I’ll pass and just take a few tips from the master.”

“Suit yourself.” They lapse into a companionable silence.

Finally, Sherlock feels calm enough to speak. “I’m feeling better now.”

“I’m glad, love. Think you can go back to sleep?”

“Mmm, yes, I think so.”

“Alright. Call me if you need me.”

“I will.”

“Goodnight.”

“John?”

“Hm?”

“...Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Sherlock.”

He sleeps. A restless, dreamless sleep.

********************

The next night, John doesn’t answer his phone.

Sherlock tries not to worry. There are a million good reasons for John not to answer his phone.

He could be out for pints with Greg. He could have (uncharacteristically) let it run out of battery. He could be occupied with Rosie’s bath. He could have turned in early.

Of course, there are a million _bad_ reasons for John not to answer his phone, too.

He could have been struck by an oncoming bus in a pedestrian crosswalk. He could have been attacked by an unstable patient. Rosie could be ill in hospital. Or worse, one of Sherlock’s criminal adversaries could have _taken_ him, he could be tied up somewhere, helpless, waiting for Sherlock to rescue him…

But no, that’s foolish, ridiculous.

Just in case, Sherlock tries the geolocation feature for John’s mobile, simply for peace of mind. It turns up no results.

Sherlock finds he can’t eat his dinner. He’s anxious, agitated and pacing. Where could John _be?_ If he’d been kidnapped, surely he’d have found a way to send Sherlock a signal, he was clever like that, so _clever…_

Sherlock makes himself sit down and breathe. He tries to remember some of the tactics that Anthony, the trauma counsellor they’d been seeing together, had taught Sherlock for times that his separation anxiety kicks in.

When Anthony first mentioned that Sherlock displayed signs of separation anxiety, Sherlock had been rather inclined to tell him off. After all, his whole life, he’d been nothing if not chronically self-absorbed: a lone wolf, a free spirit, fiercely independent and protective of his autonomy. To have _separation anxiety_ implied that he was, in reality, quite the opposite.

But Anthony had calmly explained that _separation anxiety_ didn’t automatically imply a crippling codependency (which, in hindsight, it was glaringly obvious that he and John had shared back before the Fall); instead, it was a perfectly reasonable response to the trauma that the two of them had endured together. Leaving John to go on the run, John’s rejection upon his return, Sherlock’s subsequent relapse and exile, the loss of Mary… it all knitted together into a tight pattern of loss and rejection. It was therefore perfectly logical that at times, Sherlock would feel needy or clingy.

And while it was perfectly logical, Anthony had explained, it wasn’t necessarily _healthy._ While John could provide Sherlock measured amounts of affirmation within the boundaries of reason, he couldn’t be single-handedly responsible for Sherlock’s emotional reactions to his absence. So Sherlock had been working on it. 

He’d been working on it, hard.

But tonight, it feels a bit like it’s all splitting apart at the seams. He’s having difficulty controlling his mind, which gleefully insists upon replaying every incident in which John’s life had been endangered in the time that Sherlock’s known him. Dread is settling over him like a damp shawl, heavy and oppressive, and he can’t seem to shake it off.

He picks up his phone, and dials Mycroft’s number.

“Brother mine, what an unexpected surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need… a favour.”

Mycroft chuckles smugly on the other end of the line. Sherlock internally cringes, but pushes through the shame; John’s safety was more important than their petty squabbles.

“I need--”

“To know John Watson’s whereabouts?”

Sherlock falters, a bit dumbstruck. “I… um, well... yes.”

“I’ve been personally instructed by the man in question to inform you, should you inquire, that he’s quite safe, and that his whereabouts will be revealed to you in due time.”

“He… what? What the fuck, Mycroft, cut it out, I’m not in the mood for games.”

“It’s not a game of my own design, Sherlock. I received _very_ specific instructions from Dr. Watson not to reveal his location.”

Sherlock blinks blindly, his brain whirring a million miles a minute. Why on Earth would John tell Mycroft he was going somewhere, but not Sherlock? It made absolutely no _sense._ Something was afoot, and Sherlock Holmes was not one to take having the wool pulled over his eyes sitting down.

“Sod his instructions, Mycroft, I need to know where he is. I need… I need…” He finds himself suddenly, mortifyingly, blinking back tears, his voice thickening in desperation. For fuck’s sake, he surely wasn’t about to let himself _cry_ on the phone with bloody _Mycroft--_

Just then, there’s a knock on his hotel room door. He startles instantly; who the hell would be knocking on his door? He certainly wasn’t expecting any visitors, and his dinner and already been delivered…

A thousand nefarious scenarios swim through his mind. Cautiously, he approaches the door at an angle, so as to avoid any bullets that might ricochet through at any moment. Slowly, he cracks it open.

And standing before him is one Dr. John H. Watson, looking impossibly dashing in his dark grey wool coat, hair adorably mussed from the rain. He’s beaming at Sherlock, blue eyes dancing with mischief, and Sherlock is all at once weak in the knees with relief, and so bloody furious he feels like his head might explode.

An anachronistic squawking in his ear jolts him back to reality. “Mycroft? I’ll have to call you back.” He hangs up, and flings open the door the rest of the way.

The grin on John’s face dissolves instantly, transforming into a worried frown. “Sherlock? You alright?”

“I… I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know, love. It’s supposed to be a surprise. I thought… I thought you’d be happy to see me?”

“I… I am, of course I am…” Sherlock’s stammering, blathering, his brain in freefall. “But you… But you…” He stares at John uncomprehendingly, like he can’t truly believe he’s there. John just stares back, apparently completely at a loss for why Sherlock is behaving like an absolute berk.

“I didn’t know where you were. I… you didn’t answer your phone, the geolocation wasn’t working, and I knew Mrs. H was visiting her sister, so I didn’t know who to call…”

A look of realisation is suddenly dawning on John’s face, and the next thing Sherlock knows, John’s surging forward and wrapping him into a tight grounding embrace. “Oh shit, shit, Sherlock, I’m sorry, I’m _so sorry, shit,_ I didn’t think… fuck, I didn’t think it through…”

And then Sherlock is trembling, shaking apart in his arms, the relief and the anxiety and the anger all swirling and intermingling together, and he buries his face in John’s shoulder and holds him as tight as he can.

John holds him like that for a long time. He stands, strong and steady, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and whispering sweet words of reassurance in his ear, and Sherlock lets himself melt away into the safety and comfort enveloping him.

When at last he feels ready to pull away, he’s not particularly surprised to feel that his own face is streaked with tears. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt so vulnerable, and he prays John won’t overreact.

But John just reaches up and tenderly wipes away the tears with his thumbs, then places a gentle kiss against his lips before pulling away to stare up at him intently.

“Sherlock, I am so, so sorry. I know Anthony’s always telling us to stop and _think,_ to look at situations from a different angle, to take a moment in the other person’s shoes before we make a decision, and I… I fucked up. I came up with this idea to come here and surprise you, and I thought I was being so damn clever, turning off my phone and disappearing off the radar. I forgot to stop and _think,_ and I realise now that was a huge mistake. I am so, so sorry.”

Sherlock nods blearily. “It’s… it’s not all your fault. I… appreciate the sentiment?” He knows objectively that surprising one’s lover (with visits or mini-breaks or gifts) is something that people _do_ as a romantic gesture, but he’d never really understood the intent behind it; even now, as relieved as he is to see John, his unexpected presence has thrown Sherlock’s well-curated routine into a bit of a tailspin.

John gives him a wane smile. “I’m glad you understand the gesture I was trying to make. I’m sorry I bollocksed it up a bit.” 

Sherlock shrugs. “For what it’s worth… I’m glad you’re here.”

John looks visibly relieved. “Me, too.” He turns and picks up his bag from where he’d dropped it in the entryway, and makes his way into the room, surveying the scene. “Is it too late to order room service? I didn’t eat before I left, and I’m ravenous.”

Sherlock procures the menu, and John mulls it over as if it’s a damn bomb schematic. Sherlock does his best not to get exasperated at his indecisiveness over something as mundane as _food._

“Alright, think I’m set. Have you eaten?”

“Sort of.” Sherlock makes a half-hearted gesture towards the plate of cold, picked-over food abandoned on the small table in the corner.

“A grilled cheese?”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Problem?”

“Is that all you’ve been eating for dinner since you got here? Be honest.”

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s easy.”

“Oh my God, Sherlock, how you managed to survive for thirty-some odd years without anyone around to feed you up is a miracle of modern science, I swear…” The next thing Sherlock knows, John’s calling and placing an order for more food than Sherlock usually eats in a week.

While they wait for the food, John changes out of his damp clothes into fresh jeans and one of his more endearingly fuzzy sweaters, all while updating Sherlock on the events of his day. Sherlock pays attention and responds at appropriate moments, and he resolutely looks away from John’s arse as he bends down to rummage for his toiletry kit. Now that the panic and anger have dissipated, Sherlock’s gradually becoming aware of the low-watt arousal thrumming through his veins; it’s been so _damn long_ since he and John have had sex, it was _criminal,_ honestly--

But then he mentally does the math, and realises that it will _still_ be at least two days until he and John can have unprotected sex. So while they might be able to have a bit of fun while John’s up here visiting on his surprise mini-break, they won’t _really_ be able to celebrate until they were both back home. The thought fills Sherlock with intolerable disappointment.

He doesn’t have much time to sulk. The food arrives, and John makes him a plate filled with steak and broccoli and asparagus and potatoes and some sort of dense, whole-grain dinner roll slathered in honey-sweet butter, and it’s so goddamn delicious Sherlock eats like he hasn’t seen food in weeks which, if he’s honest, he hasn’t, really; at least not _proper_ food, the kind John likes to feed him.

By the end, they’re both slouched lazily in the uncomfortable hotel room chairs, sipping the last of the bottle of cab John had selected, trading irreverent quips about some recent drama Lestrade had gotten into at the Yard, and Sherlock is feeling sleepy, sated, and rather content.

John clears his throat rather casually. “So, I should probably mention… the real reason I planned this trip is because I have some good news.”

Sherlock drains the last of his wine and regards John with a degree of suspicion; after all, John’s idea of ‘good news’ ranged anywhere from, _‘I’ve gone four months without having a panic attack’_ to _‘I found dark chocolate McVitie’s at the Tesco,’_ so Sherlock keeps his expectations in check.

“I went in for my blood test yesterday, and I happened to know one of the doctors working there. I pulled some strings, and they were able to expedite my results overnight.”

Sherlock stares blankly back at him.

John pauses, clearly waiting for Sherlock to react. When he doesn’t, he just shakes his head and carries on. “And I’m clear. Tested negative for everything. So we’re… we’re, um, good to… well, good to go, as it were.”

Sherlock suddenly feels very hot, the reality of what John is telling him hitting him like a tonne of bricks. “Oh! Oh…”

“Yeah. Yeah, so… if you want to… I mean, not right _now,_ obviously, but, um…”

“Sure. Sure, yeah, of course, we should, um… tonight.” The words feel clumsy and foolish and somehow strangely awkward, but John seems unphased. Instead, he just takes it in stride.

“Would you maybe want to get showered, and then we can watch a movie or something while we digest a bit?”

Sherlock hops up and scurries off to the bathroom so quickly he doesn’t bother to respond.

He washes thoroughly, reciting the chemical composition of sheet metal as he works his fingers into himself, a desperate attempt to distract him from the salacious thoughts of all the marvelous things John’s about to do to him. It’s been _so fucking long_ since he’s come, God, it’s going to be _fantastic…_

Nine minutes later, he returns to the room in a cloud of steam. John looks up from where he’s reclined casually on the bed, shoes off, propped up against the ludicrous number of hotel pillows, and his eyebrows disappear into his hairline.

“Well, hello there.”

“Hi, John.”

“Didn’t feel like putting on pajamas?”

“Not especially.”

John’s brow furrows in thought. “Oh, um… did you… want to have a session right now?”

Sherlock knows what he’s thinking; when they were Unwinding, one of Sherlock’s biggest turn-ons was being naked and exposed while John remained fully-clothed. He can tell why John might be confused.

He struggles to clarify. “No, not… not a _proper_ session, no, I don’t really want to submit. I just… want to be with you like this right now. Is… is that alright?”

John gives him a reassuring smile. “Of course it’s alright, Sherlock. I just want to make sure I’m giving you what you need. Come here.”

He holds out his arm invitingly, and Sherlock crawls beneath it, resting his head on John’s chest. Sherlock then reaches down to where John’s dog tags hang around his own neck and places them in his mouth, sucking them lightly as he reverts his gaze to where John’s flipping through the movie selection on the television. The cool metal against his tongue is beautifully relaxing.

“Sherlock? You sure you don’t need to Unwind? We can if you want to, just say the words.”

Sherlock shakes his head. This is all he needs right now; to be here, with John, surrounded by his presence, grounded and affirmed and certain. This is all he needs.

He lets John pick the movie, some gibberish about an alien invasion. As the nonsensical drama unfolds on the screen, Sherlock ignores it entirely, instead opting to centre himself a bit and then spin several elaborate fantasies about what was about to unfold between them. By the time the movie is reaching its inevitably violent climax, Sherlock is having to take a few deliberate measures to hide his increasingly prominent erection from John, lest he become concerned that Sherlock had developed a rather unbecoming fetish for decapitation during his time in Scotland.

At long last, the credits roll, and John reaches for the remote to flick off the telly before peering down at Sherlock. 

“You still awake?”

“Yes, John.”

John reaches down to cup Sherlock’s jaw in his hand. Then he tilts his chin up ever so slightly, bends down, and kisses him.

It’s fucking magic.

In a matter of seconds, Sherlock is more turned on than he can recall having been in recent memory. Every cell in his body is screaming at him to _present, mate, release,_ and the demand is so consuming he feels almost dizzy with it. Desperate, he pulls himself upright as gracefully as he can without disengaging his lips, then throws a leg over to straddle John before moving against him in urgent undulations.

“Jesus, Jesus, Sherlock-- slow down!” Infuriatingly, John breaks the kiss, grabbing Sherlock’s hips and holding them still; Sherlock whimpers in righteous indignation. “Christ. I don’t know how you’re feeling at the moment, but going so long without coming has me on a damn hair trigger.” He casts a quick glance down at where Sherlock’s member is throbbing angrily between them, already leaking precome, and he raises his eyebrow incredulously. “And it looks like you’re not much better off. Am I wrong, here?”

“No.” Sherlock admits sullenly.

John chuckles, and Sherlock smiles at him despite himself. “Okay, then. So I think we need to be a little careful right now if we’re both going to get what we want, yeah?”

Sherlock reluctantly nods.

“Good. Can you hand me the lube?”

John gestures towards the nightstand, and Sherlock is mildly startled to note that the lube is already sitting there-- John must have taken it out while Sherlock was in the shower. Grinning, he procures it and hands it to John, who takes it and coats two of his fingers. Then he gently reaches behind Sherlock to pull his cheeks apart with one hand, and with the other, begins to trace the circumference of his rim.

“Oh, God.” Sherlock’s barely able to choke out the words. John’s touches are feather-light and noninvasive, but John was right; going so long without release seems to have amplified each sensation tenfold, and he moans as he leans forward to bury his face in the crook of John’s neck. 

He quivers helplessly as John proceeds to toy with his rim. He doesn’t even penetrate him; he just strokes him gently, acclimating Sherlock to the sensation of his touch, but Sherlock feels as though he might lose control at any moment. He moans and burrows his face further into John’s jumper, and below him, John chuckles deviously.

“Shhh, it’s okay, love. We’ll take it nice and slow. Just relax, shhh…”

After what feels like an eternity, Sherlock feels in control enough to sit up a bit and press another kiss to John’s eager lips. As he does so, John slips one finger swiftly inside him. Sherlock gasps, but he forces himself to ignore that sensation and to focus on John’s lips instead. He devotes himself single-mindedly to memorising every delicious swirl of John’s tongue, every puff of John’s breath, every fibre of his woolen jumper, soft beneath Sherlock’s hands. If he focuses on that, he thinks, there’s a chance he may make it to the main event without releasing prematurely.

Before he knows it, John is pulling away, a satisfied smile on his face. His lips are swollen and wet from their kisses, and his hair is adorably disheveled-- Sherlock can’t help but beam back.

“Alright, love. How are you feeling?”

Sherlock takes a moment to note that John seems to have worked two fingers into him. He’s not scissoring them or moving them, really, just working a bit of lube into his passage, taking care not to come anywhere close to contact with his prostate.

“G-good. I’m good.”

“Okay. Um, usually I’d prep you a lot more, but I think we’re both really on edge, so I was thinking we may want to… move things along? I’ll just use a lot more lube than usual during the penetration and it’ll--”

Sherlock has to use all his willpower not to roll his eyes. John is always _so_ fastidious about prepping him that at times, Sherlock has had to beg him to move things along to have any chance of experiencing the mild, pulsing pang of pain that Sherlock finds so erotic during the initial act of penetration. 

“It’s fine, John, I’m fine, it’s all fine. Just--” He reaches down and begins fumbling clumsily with John’s flies, and John moans softly, maneuvering his fingers in and out of Sherlock ever so slightly as he waits. Sherlock is finally able to free John’s cock, and he’s both thrilled and a bit nervous to note that he, too, is rock hard and nearly purple with aching want. Ever so gently, he reaches down to stroke him.

“Oh! Ah, ah, ahhhh…” John’s head falls back against the pillows as Sherlock gently fondles his member, and he continues to slowly work his two fingers in and out of Sherlock’s fluttering hole. Their eyes meet, and it feels for all the world like there’s _electricity_ between them.

“Mmm. Mmm, John, yes, yes, mmmm…” 

Sherlock’s not sure how long they last like that, just stimulating each other with the lightest of touches, eyes locked, attuned to every shiver and shudder, pulses racing, pupils so dilated they’re all but black. All too soon, Sherlock can feel himself growing uncomfortably close to the edge.

“J-John? I think we need to… we need to keep going, now.”

John withdraws his fingers carefully. “Mmm, alright. I’m not going to last long, love, so we should do this however you think will get you there the fastest. What do you want?”

Sherlock doesn’t even have to pause to think. He knows damn well what his favourite position is, and he’s not too shy to ask for it.

He unceremoniously pulls himself up onto his knees, unseats himself from John’s lap, and turns to face away from him, presenting his arse without a single iota of shame (because honestly, what was there to be ashamed about? The sexual hang-ups of regular couples all sound incredibly foreign to him).

Behind him, John laughs giddily, and Sherlock’s blood feels suddenly very warm. “Alright, then.” John’s weight disappears from the bed, and Sherlock can hear him stripping off his clothes before clambering back in and taking his place, kneeling behind him. Sherlock, meanwhile, is all but vibrating out of his skin.

John shuffles forward, and then there’s the familiar sound of slick on skin as John coats himself with lube. “M’kay, love. Want to get on all fours for me, or do you want to sit in my lap with me behind you?”

“Sit in your lap.” Honestly, did John even have to _ask?_ Sherlock had thought his preference for this position was obvious, but perhaps he should be a bit more outspoken about it in the future…

“Alright. Let’s take this nice and slow, Sherlock. I honestly don’t even know if I’m going to make it all the way in without coming.”

Sherlock shrugs. “As long as you get your come in me, I’m not particular.”

“Jesus Christ, you will be the death of me. Alright, you, come here.” And with that, John’s left hand appears on Sherlock’s hip, and he begins to gently guide him down. Sherlock goes willingly, splaying his legs as he sits down, lowering his pelvis until he can feel the thick head of John’s cock press against his open hole.

They both moan.

“Nnngh, okay. Really slowly, now, okay?” John’s voice sounds a bit hoarse.

“Okay.” Sherlock notes his own voice has gone high and tight. But then John’s hand on his hip is pulling him back even further, easing him down, guiding him onto his prick.

Sherlock feels every damn inch like he’s never felt it before. The feeling of John’s frenulum catching ever so slightly as it passes his rim, the throbbing heat of John’s skin _inside_ of him, the raw, feral sensation of being joined with nothing between them, oh God, oh _God--_

_“John! Nnnnngh, John!”_ For a second he thinks he might lose it, but the next thing he knows, John is pinching his right nipple, _hard,_ the flicker of pain just enough to keep him from toppling over the edge. He moans in relief and sinks the rest of the way until his buttocks are resting on John’s thighs.

“Ohhhh, fuck, Sherlock, God damn, you feel so good, Christ, oh--oh shit, hold still, hold still--”

Sherlock freezes in place. He can feel John’s cock pulsing in his clenching passage, and he knows John’s _extremely_ close to the edge. They couldn’t fight it much longer…

“Mmph, okay. Okay, I think I’m okay.” John takes a deep breath, and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s chest, pressing his body close against Sherlock’s back as he leans in to run a trail of reverent kisses up the side of Sherlock’s neck.

And this. _This._ This is why this is Sherlock’s favourite position. Having John take him from behind feels delicious and deviant and it stimulates his prostate just the way he likes best, but sitting in John’s lap facing away from him is still so much more _intimate_ than having John simply take him doggy-style with Sherlock on all-fours. In this position, John can kiss his neck and murmur sweet words in his ear. He can wrap Sherlock in his muscular arms and hold him tight to his chest, immobilising him as he thrusts up into his willing body. He can play with Sherlock’s nipples, he can grab him by the hips, he can wrap Sherlock’s neck in the crook of his arm and cut off his air supply, the times they’re being rough. He can fuck up into Sherlock and use him as he pleases, or he can sit back and let Sherlock ride his prick to his heart’s content. Sherlock’s hands are free to touch his own cock and balls, or sometimes his nipples, or sometimes they reach behind him and tangle in John’s hair as he twists his head so they can kiss, deep and filthy, as they fuck. It’s perfect. It’s utterly perfect.

Tonight is no exception. John’s member feels hard and thick and demanding inside of Sherlock, stretching him in ways that make his toes curl and is breath catch in his throat. Sherlock rolls his hips a bit experimentally, not even raising and lowering himself, just testing the sensation of being so _full,_ but the act causes John to yelp and pull away from where he’d previously been occupied sucking a love-bite into the side of Sherlock’s neck.

“Oh--gah! Jesus… okay, Sherlock? I need to come. Are you close? Do you want to try and come first?”

Sherlock shakes his head; for once in his life, that’s not how he wants this to go. “No. I want to feel you come in me, then I want to get myself off before you pull out.”

“Christ almighty, Sherlock, what did I ever do to deserve you, hmm?” John presses a light kiss to the back of his neck, and a shiver dances its way up Sherlock’s spine. He moans desperately, hoping John will hurry up, before he loses control altogether. “Mmm, alright, love, going to fill you up now, yeah?”

“God, yes, please, John…”

“You going to be good and take everything I’ve been keeping inside since you went away?”

Sherlock squirms uncomfortably, attempting to spread his legs even further than where they’re currently splayed beside John’s. “Yes, Christ, John, yes, _please,_ I want it all, give it to me…”

“Mmm, okay then, Sherlock. Here you go.”

And with that, John’s arms wrap tight around Sherlock’s chest, locking him into place. Sherlock arches a bit, but the next thing he knows, John’s thrusting up into him in deep, frantic strokes, each one hitting his prostate so hard he swears he can feel his own arousal in his damn teeth.

“J-J-John! John! John! OH! OH GOD! JOHN!”

Behind him, John is wailing, a pained, strange sound rattling in its intensity. He’s pistoning up into Sherlock, lost to all the world, blind to anything that isn’t his sought-after release.

“NGHAAAH!” In one final, heroic movement, John yanks Sherlock down onto his member with all of his considerable strength, driving his turgid prick deeper inside of him than Sherlock’s ever felt it before. 

Sherlock’s eyes roll back in his head, and then he feels the unmistakable sensation of John’s release blooming inside of him.

It’s heaven. 

Sherlock’s never quite been able to describe to John why it means so much to him when John comes inside of him. Perhaps it’s because, despite his own checkered sexual history, he never let any of his previous partners anally penetrate him. Perhaps it’s because the act feels so undeniably _intimate,_ his body receiving a part of John’s as a consequence of their passion. Perhaps it’s because it makes him feel like he _belongs_ to John, as if John’s body is staking ownership over his own in a secret pact that only the two of them share. Or perhaps it’s simply because he fucking loves this moment, when John loses himself in pleasure, and Sherlock takes all the evidence of that pleasure into himself, and it turns into a special pleasure of his own.

Whatever it is, it’s transcendent.

John’s orgasm lasts an eternity. Every time Sherlock thinks surely it _must_ be over and John’s arms begin to loosen their vice grip around his torso, the next thing he knows, John is yanking him down firmly onto his prick yet again as another wave of ecstasy is pumped into Sherlock’s channel. John is still making strange, pained, choked-off sounds as each new crest washes over him, and Sherlock can feel his arms trembling with the effort of holding Sherlock in place as he awaits the inevitable fading of his pleasure.

Sherlock’s not quite sure how long he endures it before John relinquishes his grip and melts back to lean against the headboard, gasping for air. All he knows is that by the time he does, Sherlock feels so full he’s already leaking, and John hadn’t even started to soften yet.

“Oh, Jesus, Sherlock…” John sounds completely out of it.

But it’s no matter; the next part was for Sherlock alone.

With all of the strength he can muster, he begins to raise and lower himself on John’s prick, aiming directly for his own prostate. The nub inside of him feels so swollen and tender, the back of his throat tightens as if he’s choking on his own suffocating arousal. He can feel how full he is, how much come John’s put into him, and it’s so fucking intoxicating he’s worried he might pass out. Instead, he reaches down to grab his own prick, and gives himself a firm, rough stroke.

He comes instantly.

He immediately understands why John was making such peculiar sounds when he came; despite some sporadic spells of total celibacy over the past few years, this is certainly the longest he’s ever explicitly denied himself in such a way, and the subsequent release is both agony and ecstasy in one. It feels nearly _painful_ in its intensity, as if his balls are so tight they might implode, and it’s an aching, dizzying, disorientating sensation. The only other time he can ever remember feeling anything like it was during his Birthday session, months ago, when John denied him for a whole day and then only let him come at the very end. As it stands, he howls and moans as he coats his hand and soaks the bedsheets with his well-earned relief.

When he comes to, he’s on his stomach, legs still spread. John’s on top of him, his cock still inside him, and he’s moving it in and out in slow, measured strokes.

“Ohhh…” Sherlock moans from the overstimulation.

“God, Sherlock, you’re so amazing, you’re so good, you were so good, Christ, you’re so full right now, can you feel how full I made you, love?” John sounds breathless as well as he moves his softening prick in slow, sensual drags.

Sherlock takes a moment to consider it. Fuck, _yes,_ he _can_ feel how full John’s made him; he feels wet and messy and absolutely delicious. “Oh, John, yes, yes, thank you… mmm, thank you…”

He feels John press a sweet, soft kiss between his shoulderblades. “Thank _you,_ love. You were so good for me. Hold still now, yeah?”

Sherlock cringes as he feels John withdraw. His hole feels exceptionally exposed, and he moans in wanton pleasure.

But then there’s movement, and John’s disappeared from the bed and he’s rummaging through his bag, and Sherlock turns his face into the pillow and downright _giggles_ with glee, because he _knows_ what happens next.

Next, John will come back with the anal plug, and he’ll put it inside Sherlock to keep all the evidence of himself inside. Then they’ll kiss and talk and doze for a bit, and then John will take him again, more roughly this time, and put the plug back as soon as he’s finished. Then they’ll sleep, but sometime in the night, John will wake and find himself worked up, and the next thing Sherlock will know, John will be taking him once more, slow and sensual and sweet in their half-dreaming state, John filling him up impossibly more before before slipping the plug back in place. Then they’ll sleep some more, but wake in the morning to the realisation that Sherlock is still open and ready to go, and they’ll have messy, delightful morning sex, and afterwards John will admire his hole for a long time, waxing poetic about how beautiful Sherlock looks when he’s so full of him. Then John will be a spoilsport and insist they do _boring_ things like shower and eat and walk about town, and Sherlock will partake and he’ll behave nicely, but every once in a while he and John will share a glance between them and Sherlock will _know_ John’s thinking about all the beautiful, depraved things Sherlock lets him do to him, and Sherlock will glow and glow and glow so bright he may never stop.

But for now, John simply presses the plug inside of him, and pulls Sherlock into his arms.

Sherlock can’t wait for everything that comes next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowd question: how are we feeling about Sherlock having a wee little fantasy about Aaron thrown in there? Cool? Not cool? Thoughts?
> 
> And extra-special double thanks to commenter Lackis, who submitted “What’s Sherlock’s Favourite Position?” as a prompt - thank you for the inspiration! Hope you enjoyed this insight into his preferences.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To enjoy this chapter, I strongly recommend that you read “Possession” from this series, which introduces Aaron as an OMC. It’s not essential, but there’s some backstory and negotiation that occurs in that installment that make the following events _sane & consensual,_ so if that’s important to you, that chapter will provide the required context.
> 
> Aaaand if you enjoy visual aids to accompany your erotica, this is a friendly reminder that Aaron is loosely based on Tobias Santelmann’s character in “Borderliner.” 
> 
> Quick word of warning: This chapter deals with some issues of internalised homophobia. I’ll be circling back to the issues raised by this in an upcoming installment.

John takes the final swig of his gin & tonic and leans back in his chair, doing his best to appear casual. Despite his efforts, he can’t help but feel distinctly awkward and self-conscious; he doesn’t remember where his hands are supposed to go, his dress shirt feels stifling, and regardless of the rather pleasant buzz he has going, he feels tongue-tied and incapable of small talk.

He glances across the table at Sherlock, who is deep in animated conversation with the man to his left-- what was his name? Chris? Eric? Something predictably bland. He seemed like the type of chap that normally Sherlock would glare down his nose at, eviscerate with some scathing remark, and then summarily ignore, but tonight, it seems he’s on his best behaviour. Not only that, but he actually seems to be _enjoying_ himself. John wallows internally at the irony of their reversed positions

Sherlock was going to owe him for this.

The second the thought crosses his mind, he mentally berates himself and replays the scene from their flat earlier that evening:

“Sherlock, come on, you don’t need me there. You _know_ Aaron and I don’t get on well, and not only that, but you’re going out _dancing._ Literally no part of this is in any way appealing to me.”

“Don’t be petty, John, you know Aaron only takes the piss out of you in good fun. And besides, there’s dinner beforehand; you don’t even need to stick around for the dancing. Just come, show your face, wish him happy birthday, have a bite to eat...”

John shot Sherlock an exasperated glare. “Yeah, there’s dinner, at a gay restaurant.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not a _gay restaurant,_ John, it’s a restaurant in a gay-friendly neighbourhood that caters to queer clientele. It’s not as if your prawns are going to engage in homosexual intercourse on your plate, or the little pats of butter will be in the shape of cocks.”

Despite himself, John snorted. “Fine, point taken. I just feel a little… out of my element in a place like that, you know?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Congratulations, now you know how queer people feel being immersed in heteronormative environments 99% of their lives.” His tone had gone cool and commanding, and John recognised it well; it was the tone Sherlock’s voice would take on whenever the two of them were about to have a row about John’s proclaimed sexuality. He decided he’d best capitulate and avoid the drama.

“Alright, alright, I’ll go. And I’ll even be nice to Aaron. Seeing as it’s his birthday and all.”

Sherlock had grinned. “I knew you’d play nice.”

John shot him an appraising glance. “Don’t test me, Holmes. I tolerate Aaron’s infatuation with you because he’s young and foolish and it’s a little endearing, but don’t push it.”

Sherlock had winked at him. “Wouldn’t dream of it, John.”

So John objectively acknowledges that it would be blatantly unfair to think that Sherlock _owed_ him for putting him in an uncomfortable situation when John was _constantly_ pestering Sherlock to attend events that put him outside his comfort zone (family gatherings, dinner parties, drinks with the Yarders…). So he simply sits back, internally steels himself, and plasters a dull, placating smile on his face.

It’s at that moment that Sherlock turns back to him, and their eyes meet. Without saying a word, Sherlock reaches over the table and takes John’s hand in his own, giving it a quick squeeze. John’s smile turns sincere. It’s nice to see Sherlock happy.

The remainder of the meal is shockingly tolerable, all things considered. John takes up conversation with the man next to him, Adrian, who, as it turns out, was a doctor as well. They spend a majority of the time trading anecdotes about all the bizarre cases they’d seen over the years, and despite himself, two more drinks in, John finds he’s having a rather good time indeed. He occasionally throws a glance Sherlock’s way to make sure that he hasn’t lost interest in the proceedings and decided to give everyone a good dressing-down under the guise of doing a “Deductions” party trick, but so far, Sherlock’s goodwill seems to be lasting.

Once the meal has concluded, the group gathers outside the restaurant and begins to make their way down the street to the club. John taps Aaron on the shoulder, and Aaron turns, visibly surprised; they didn’t usually seek out much one-on-one interaction. 

“Hey. I’m going to take off-- dancing’s not really my thing. Sherlock’s in it for the long haul, though, so make sure he gets home in one piece, yeah?”

“Oy, Johnny boy, don’t be such a spoilsport! Come on, it’ll be fun!”

John laughs, shaking his head. “For you, maybe, but I’ve got two left feet and--”

“Too scared to go in a gay bar?”

The comment blindsides him, and John stops in his tracks, taking a beat before he’s able to formulate his response. “What are you insinuating, exactly?”

Aaron shrugs as he rounds on him, infuriatingly casual. “Nothin’, mate, just that maybe you ought to give authenticity a try, for a change.”

John’s eyes narrow, and he steps resoundly into Aaron’s personal space. Aaron may be nearly a foot taller than him, but John Watson was not easily intimidated, and he stares up at him with squared shoulders. He sees Aaron adapting his military posture as well, as if out of instinct, and John internally braces himself. “If you’ve got an issue with the way I’m living my life, _mate,_ perhaps you ought to--”

“John?”

John startles, and looks over to see Sherlock hovering awkwardly between the group walking ahead of them, and where he and Aaron have come to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk.

John immediately steps back and gives Sherlock a warm smile, all traces of malevolence vanishing instantaneously. “Sorry, love. We were just having a chat.”

Sherlock approaches them, worry etched into the furrows of his brow. “About what, exactly? I know how things tend to go when the two of you get to _chatting.”_

John reaches out and takes Sherlock’s hand, giving it an affectionate squeeze. “Aaron just convinced me that I ought to join you at the bar.”

Sherlock’s face lights up immediately, and a pang of guilt throbs dimly in the back of John’s subconscious; he knew Sherlock loved dancing, why was he being so _selfish_ and bowing out when he _knew_ it would make Sherlock happy if he joined? Christ, he really could be a self-centred prick sometimes…

“Oh! Good! That’s… that’s good.” Sherlock’s eyes are bright and his cheeks are a bit flushed, and John notes that it seems he wasn’t the only one imbibing more than usual tonight.

They’re jolted back to reality by the sensation of Aaron clapping them both resolutely on the back. “Aces! It’s settled then. Can’t wait to see your moves on the dance floor, _Captain.”_ He shoots John a provocative glance before gleefully jogging ahead to catch up with the rest of the group.

“God, I hate him.” John begrudgingly squeezes Sherlock’s hand, and they fall quickly into step behind him.

“No, you don’t.”

John thinks back to the first time Aaron came by their flat, the morning after he’d made a pass at Sherock. He hadn’t known the two of them were together, and Sherlock and John hadn’t been able to help themselves from stringing him along for a bit, and John’s ensuing jealousy had resulted in a _most_ delicious session of Unwinding once he’d dragged Sherlock away. 

But Aaron had showed up on the doorstep the next day, meek and abashed and more than a little lost. And John realised that Aaron was a good person; he was just confused and scared. He’d just left the military and was trying to figure out how to live his life as an openly gay man after so many years in the closet. John’s heart had broken for him a little bit that day.

Things had gotten better since then. Aaron had taken a post as a liaison between the Yard and MI-5 on the counterterrorism front. His friendship with Sherlock had blossomed into a mutual fondness based on their (undeniably nerdy) shared passion for cryptography. He’d gotten a flat in Vauxhall, and begun openly dating men. Last John had heard from Sherlock, Aaron was having _no_ trouble pulling (as if he would; John considers himself straight, but he’d have to be blind not to notice that Aaron was almost _painfully_ conventionally attractive), and according to Lestrade, everyone at the Yard adored him.

John purses his lips. “No. No, I don’t hate him. But Christ, does that man know how to goad me on…”

Sherlock gives John a good-natured shrug. “Maybe he’s just noticed how hot you are when you get riled up.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“I’m serious! You get all broody and focused and your posture gets devastatingly militaristic and your voice gets low and stern--” (Sherlock leans in conspiratorially to whisper in John’s ear) “--and it makes me want to get on my knees for you every damn time it happens, _Captain.”_

John licks his lips and keeps his gaze facing resolutely forward. “Is that so?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Think maybe once we’re done with all this dancing nonsense, you’ll want to get on your knees for me tonight?” John can already feel his cock twitching with interest; after all, Mrs. H had agreed to keep Rosie overnight, and he and Sherlock hadn’t had a chance to have a proper session in a while…

“That depends.”

John swallows. “On what?”

“On whether you can satisfy me on the dance floor.” And with a theatrical flourish, Sherlock spins out of his grasp and jogs ahead to join the rest of the group, shooting John an impish grin over his shoulder.

Christ, it was going to be a long night.

An hour later, John is having Regrets. The club was, essentially, everything he’d feared: hot, overcrowded, loud, and filled to the brim with men who were all being… very _comfortable_ with their sexuality. All in all, it was John’s worst nightmare manifested. He’s fairly certain he’s going to have to devote several sessions of therapy exclusively to his near-visceral level of discomfort.

John’s not homophobic. Of _course_ he’s not. There was nothing wrong with being gay! His _sister_ was gay, and he’d supported her since the day she came out! And of course, Sherlock was gay, too. That hadn’t bothered him when they first met. Not really, anyway. Sure, it had perhaps aggravated him when everyone started assuming they were a couple, but it wasn’t like he was _afraid_ of homosexuals; he just didn’t like everyone’s assumptions ruining his chances at meeting women. 

Things had gotten a bit trickier once he and Sherlock became intimate, of course. Sherlock took the manifestation of their physical relationship as a sign that John had either been in denial about his homosexuality, or at the very least, a latent bisexual. John took their physical relationship as a sign of nothing except for the fact that he was, bizarrely, attracted to Sherlock in spite of his maleness; to John, that had no bearing on his own sexual orientation-- Sherlock was an exception, an extreme outlier, not an indication of some deep-seeded secret festering somewhere inside of him.

The topic had been the cause of many long, tense, uncomfortable conversations between the two of them (not to mention a few all-out, screaming rows, one of which had culminated in smashed mugs of tea and Sherlock sleeping on the sofa for an entire week). Sherlock was not keen on the fact that John refused to label himself as anything but straight; John detested the fact that Sherlock was so obsessed over any label to begin with. At the end of the day, their past experiences (from the way they were raised to their relationship histories) left them diametrically, irrevocably opposed on the subject, so for the most part, they elected to avoid it altogether.

And for the most part, avoidance _worked_ for them. The issue of their sexualities didn’t feel paramount in the scheme of their relationship; they were in love, they shared a household, they were raising Rosie together, and they remained deeply, passionately attracted to one another. Calling it one thing or another seemed rather beyond the point.

Except for on nights like tonight, when John is so far out of his depth that he feels like drowning. Sherlock looks to be having the time of his life, dancing up a storm with Aaron and his friends, smiling, laughing, looking carefree and relaxed and so goddamn _sexy_ with his shirt unbuttoned just a _tad_ further than usual, his raven ringlets effortlessly mussed, his hips mesmerising as they sway to the beat…

And John is just… lost. He’s not comfortable being this close to so many moving bodies in such a crowded space (perhaps a residual effect of his PTSD, but he can’t be sure), and the volume of the music feels unbearable. For a while he could shut it out, focus on Sherlock, run his hands over Sherlock’s body as he moved, grounding himself, focusing on something _safe_ and _familiar,_ but soon the dance floor is too crowded and he can’t carry on.

That said, he doesn’t want to leave. Aaron’s words feel branded into his brain: _Maybe you ought to give authenticity a try, for a change._ It was more than a jab, it was a _challenge:_ Aaron was indicating that he _knew_ about John’s trepidation over his own sexuality, that Sherlock had undoubtedly told him about it during one of their “friendly” heart-to-hearts, and that he disapproved of John’s reticence towards ‘coming out’ and being his ‘authentic’ self-- whatever the bloody hell that was supposed to mean. Regardless, John was NOT about to throw in the towel and retreat, leaving Aaron to bask in victory.

He leans forward to pull Sherlock close, shouting in his ear. “I’M GETTING A DRINK, OKAY?”

“WHAT?”

“I NEED A DRINK.”

“WHAT?”

John gives up and pantomimes a drinking motion. Sherlock grins and nods and turns back towards the group, sashaying his way back into the fray.

John elbows his way over to the bar, doing his best not to feel like a geriatric grouch as he maneuvers through the sea of corporeal gyrations. He grabs the bartop like a life raft, delighted to note that there’s an open stool not two feet to his left, which he gratefully collapses into. Christ, this had been a stupid decision.

The bartender fulfills his order with a look of mild inconvenience (John objectively realises he’s about fifteen years over the age of the average patron of this particular establishment, and damn, is he feeling it), but he still throws down a generous tip before downing about half the drink at once, then swivels his stool to see if he can still catch a glimpse of Sherlock in the crowd.

And there he is. Laughing effortlessly with _Aaron’s hands around his waist as Aaron leans in to speak into his ear, his lips barely an inch away from Sherlock’s neck._

John nearly combusts on the spot. He’s honestly surprised his glass doesn’t shatter in his hand he’s clutching it with such vehemence, and his vision has gone an odd shade of red. 

Fuck politeness. Despite his best intentions and promises to behave himself around Aaron, there are something John Watson will _not_ abide, and another man laying hands on Sherlock is one of them. Resignedly determined, he turns and deposits his half-consumed drink on the bar before rising to his feet and rolling up his sleeves. Sure, it’s been a few years since he was in a proper Army brawl, but he’s stayed in rather decent shape playing in his rec rugby league and hitting the gym several times a week; even if Aaron’s got several inches on him, John’s fairly certain the amount of sheer _hatred_ pulsing through his veins is certain to give him at least a small advantage--

“Hey.” A voice startlingly close to his right ear snaps him out of his rage-fueled fugue state, and he whips around to find himself once again face to face with--

“Aaron.”

“John.” Aaron looks immeasurably smug as he signals to the bartender, who all but trips over himself hustling over to take his order, much to John’s chagrin. “Having fun, then?”

John doesn’t waiver. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Hmm? Getting a drink. This being a bar and all.” He stares down at John innocently, and John uses every last ounce of reserve in his body not to take a swing at him then and there.

“You know damn well that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Oh, you mean out there on the dance floor?”

John takes a resolute step towards him. “Mainly the part where you’re putting your hands on my partner.” It’s an outright challenge, and John hardly expects Aaron to back down. But what he _certainly_ doesn’t expect is for Aaron to lower his voice an octave and lean in conspiratorially.

“I’m doing exactly what you want me to do.”

The words stop John cold. “What did you just say to me?”

Aaron rolls his eyes. “Please, John, can we just drop the act and stop pretending that this isn’t what we both know damn well this is?”

“And what, pray tell, IS THIS, in your opinion?”

“This is exactly what you want.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Aaron laughs. “For fuck’s sake! Do you think I’m stupid, blind, or both?”

John just narrows his eyes at him; he has no idea how to respond.

Aaron simply soldiers on. “That night I tried to make a move on Sherlock and you two led me on? Do you think I don’t know what that’s about?”

John responds cautiously. “What… what do you think that’s about?” He doesn’t want to reveal any more than Aaron already knows, but he can’t quite gauge exactly how much Aaron has caught on to.

Aaron takes a sip of his drink and gives a cavalier shrug. “I think you two get off on it. The jealousy thing. You take him out, he flirts with other men and it gets you both hot and bothered, then you drag him home and do... whatever it is you two get up to. It’s not exactly a well-guarded secret for anyone who’s gotten caught up in it, John, present company included.”

John feels suddenly rather exposed. While he objectively knew that Aaron had probably put together the truth about what had been happening that night he and Sherlock had a bit of fun at his expense, hearing this particular proclivity described out loud in Aaron’s typically nonchalant manner is making him feel shockingly vulnerable.

He licks his lips, buying himself time to formulate a response. “Yeah, and I apologised for bringing you into that without your consent. I admitted it was rude and a little cruel to lead you on, you accepted my apology, and I thought we’d moved on. So why bring it up now?”

Aaron looks him directly in the eye. “Because now, I’m giving my consent.”

The words hit John like a bucket of water. He finds he’s shockingly neither angry nor offended, just rather bewilderingly caught off-guard. “I’m… you’re… what?”

Aaron doesn’t look away. He leans in even closer and speaks in his usual measured, direct tone. “I’m giving my consent if you two… want to have a little fun like that tonight. I’ll flirt with your boy over there, dance with him, show him a good time. When you’ve seen enough, you take him home. No harm, no foul.”

John’s eyes narrow; while Sherlock has assured John that Aaron has many admirable qualities, John’s fairly certain blind benevolence was not one of them. “What’s in it for you? I’m fairly certain your goal isn’t to leave here alone tonight.”

Aaron throws back his head and laughs. “Are you kidding me? Being stranded on the dance floor on my _birthday_ is the greatest pickup move of all-time. Witnesses will feel so _sorry_ for me being _cruelly abandoned_ like that, I’m pretty certain I won’t be left wanting.”

John cocks his head. “You honestly think that’ll work?”

Aaron shrugs. “Worked on my nineteenth birthday, when my soon-to-be-ex left me high and dry. And my twenty-fifth birthday, too, when I had one of my friends pose as my potential hookup and then bail. Granted, that time I was lying about it being my birthday to garner pity from this insanely hot Swede with hands like… look, never mind, that’s not the point. My data pool indicates this is a strong play, and we’ll both come out winners. You in, Watson?”

John’s head is spinning, a thousand salacious thoughts all clawing their way up from the depths of his subconscious, clamoring towards the light, but his better judgement manages to tamp them back down.

He verbalises the first mundane objection that pops into his head. “What will your friends think?”

“For Christ’s sake, John, we’re a bunch of gay men living in one of the largest metropolises in the world, this is hardly the kinkiest shit they’ve seen go down-- this is just another damn Friday night. Live it up a little, yeah?”

John blinks dumbly back at him, momentarily entirely flummoxed.

Part of him can’t believe he’s even _considering_ this. While he doesn’t actively _dislike_ Aaron, their relationship had always been rocky since the day they met. Truth be told, it wasn’t that they were dissimilar; if anything they were _too_ similar: they were both both military men, and they both carried themselves with that particular swagger ingrained after years in the service. It made sense that they often locked horns over even the most trivial matters, and while John was never _threatened_ by the fact that Aaron got on so well with Sherlock, he wasn’t exactly his biggest fan.

And yet.

And _yet._

When John and Sherlock first started experimenting with how John’s possessive streak could be incorporated into their sex life, they’d run into numerous obstacles, the primary one being lack of third-party consent. While John and Sherlock both found the dynamics involved undeniably arousing, John quickly became painfully aware that without the consent of the individuals they were involving, their encounters couldn’t be categorised as _sane_ and _consensual._ There was the potential for people to get hurt, even if it wasn’t the two of them. Hell, Aaron _had_ gotten hurt.

But here he was, offering to play along, without ulterior motive or agenda. And if he was giving his willing, open consent… well, why the hell not? This was something that both he and Sherlock had expressed their desire for, but had yet to find a way to execute. What harm was there in trying?

John shrugs his shoulders and looks Aaron squarely in the eye. “Alright.”

Aaron raises his eyebrows. “Alright?”

John leans back and takes a nonchalant sip of his drink. “I said alright. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Aaron licks his lips hazards a glance over at the dance floor, where Sherlock is currently laughing gleefully at Chris/Eric’s flamboyant interpretation of whatever pop song is currently thundering out of the speakers. “Alright, then, Captain. Limits?”

“Limits?”

“How far can I take this? Where do you two draw the line?”

John knows what his own limits are, and from their past negotiations, he’s fairly confident he knows what Sherlock’s down for. “Keep your hands above the waist. No kissing on the lips. Tell him you have my permission. The rest is up to you.”

“Noted.” Aaron tosses back the last of his drink, and the next thing John knows, he’s making a beeline straight for Sherlock. 

John leans back against the bar, and watches.

Aaron catches Sherlock from behind. One moment, Sherlock is dancing uninhibited, arms above his head, eyes closed, lost in the rhythm. The next, Aaron is wrapping him in his arms, pulling him close. Sherlock’s eyes fly open, and they lock with John’s across the sea of undulating bodies.

John doesn’t move. He simply _observes_ as Aaron leans in to speak into Sherlock’s ear. As he does, the look on Sherlock’s face transforms from surprise to something that could only be described as _hunger,_ but he never breaks his gaze from John’s. They stare at one another as Aaron murmurs into Sherlock’s ear, close enough that even from this distance, John can see his lips are grazing Sherlock’s earlobe. Despite himself, he shivers.

And then Aaron is pulling away, moving his hands to Sherlock’s waist as he begins to sway to the rhythm. Sherlock, for his part, remains motionless, eyes still fixed on John.

At that moment, John finally realises what Sherlock is waiting for: He’s asking for permission of his own.

John looks him straight in the eye, and nods.

Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed, and he lets himself be pulled backwards into Aaron’s waiting arms, moving their hips in tandem as Aaron’s lips find their way to Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock tips his head back, and surrenders.

It’s as if the entire scene has been transformed in the blink of an eye. Moments ago, John had felt suffocatingly out of place, trying to fit in in an atmosphere that felt completely, agonisingly foreign to him. But now, it’s as if he’s stepped outside of it all, a strange sort of out-of-body experience in which he’s absolved from participation altogether. Instead, he’s on the outside looking in, observing the sensual tableau spread out before him, not a _part_ of it but merely a witness to it, absolved of the pressure to blend in. It’s a glorious, heady freedom that washes over him like a wave, transforming awkward embarrassment to excruciating arousal in the span of a racing heartbeat.

Aaron is as good as his word, and he plays his part beautifully, much to John’s relief. He doesn’t come off as lecherous or opportunistic, and he diligently respects the limits John had set forth. He simply moves with Sherlock, touching him, caressing him in ways that make John’s blood boil and his trousers feel unnaturally tight. The sight of Sherlock in the arms of someone else ignites John’s most primal, possessive instincts, and he’s quickly overwhelmed with the desire to _dominate,_ to _claim,_ to _possess_ and _control._ These are dark, deep-seeded urges, the type he’d spent years of his life fighting to deny and deflect.

Until.

Until he met Sherlock, who dragged those dark desires out into the light, who didn’t hide from them but instead _embraced_ them, and taught John to do the same. Sherlock, who satisfied John physically in ways he didn’t know were possible, whether through passionate lovemaking or brutal fucking. Sherlock, who showed John that there was no one right way to love.

Sherlock who, in this moment, was tipping his head to the side, allowing Aaron to trace slow, soft kisses up the side of his neck as his fingers tighten around Sherlock’s swaying hips. Sherlock’s eyes are fluttered shut, and he bites his lip as Aaron’s hands make their way to his chest, drawing him closer. Sherlock is so goddamn beautiful in this moment, so serene and sensual all at once, gorgeous and exotic and entranced by the thrum of the music and the pressure of the arms around him, it’s gorgeous, he’s so fucking gorgeous…

And then there’s Aaron. He moves with cool, deliberate precision, a masterful seduction, measured and sure. John hates him, he _hates_ him, he wants to storm onto the dance floor and tear his hands away from what’s rightfully _his,_ show Aaron just how fully Sherlock _belongs_ to him, the way Sherlock gets _desperate_ and _needy_ and begs for John, only John, John, the only man to ever have brought him to his knees, made him crawl, the only man to have tied him up and made him cry, the only man who’s _ever_ fucked him, come inside his virgin channel, the only man who’s _ever_ known the transcendent pleasure of being inside such an aloof and reserved creature and made him fall helplessly under the spell of corporeal pleasure. John, who had taken a self-proclaimed sociopath and broken down every last one of his defenses and molded him into _this:_ the man dancing on the floor here tonight, putting on a show, provocative and sultry and begging to be tamed. This was for _John, all for him…_

The world around them has grown bleary with lust-addled haze, John’s vision tunneling in on the two figures swaying before him. Aaron’s hands make their way back to Sherlock’s waist and turn him slowly until they’re face to face, noses nearly touching, lips achingly close… John’s eyes flit downward to see where Aaron is gripping Sherlock firmly to press their pelvises together, moving to the beat, and Sherlock’s eyes go wide as his hands traverse Aaron’s muscular chest. Aaron grins down at him, and Sherlock smiles back, his face coy and demure while the seductive swing of his hips implies otherwise. Aaron licks his lips, and pulls Sherlock impossibly closer, and Sherlock gasps, overwhelmed with the sensation of his touch--

And that’s the last straw.

The next thing John knows, he’s got his hand wrapped firmly around Sherlock’s arm and is bodily hauling him backwards. Sherlock stumbles slightly, clearly caught entirely off-guard; he has a dazed, punch-drunk expression on his face, and it’s one John can’t _wait_ to wipe off.

“Come on. Let’s go.” John ignores the chorus of scandalised _oooohs_ and amused titters that erupt among the onlookers.

Sherlock blinks dumbly back at him. “Why?”

“Because I say you’ve had enough. We’re leaving. Say goodnight to Aaron.”

Sherlock stands frozen, an unreadable look on his face, and John can tell he’s contemplating pushing his luck. John decides to nip the situation in the bud, before it can escalate.

He leans in as close as possible, gripping Sherlock firmly by the back of his neck, pulling him down so that John can speak directly into his ear. “We’re leaving this instant. You’ve been _very_ bad tonight, and I need to take you home to be punished. Don’t make a fucking scene; you’re in for a world of trouble already. If you know what’s good for you, you will turn around and walk out of here right the fuck now.”

And there, that’s done it. The moment he pulls away, he can see that Sherlock’s expression has transformed from one of benign belligerence to one of total compliance. His cheeks are flushed, and his pupils are so dilated, his eyes seem nearly black. When he speaks, all that comes out is a hushed whisper. “Yes, John.”

And with that, Sherlock turns and marches resolutely towards the door.

John hazards a look over at Aaron, who is observing the situation with a look of vague entertainment, his eyes still alight with mischief.

John offers him a terse nod of his head, fighting back the urge to take one final swing at his smug face. “Goodnight, Aaron. Happy birthday.”

Aaron tosses his head back and laughs. “Christ, the pair of you are really something else. You have a good night, John. Enjoy.” And with that, he turns and melts back into the crowd.

John turns on his heel and makes a swift exit; now that he’s put an end to the fun, the desire to get Sherlock somewhere private is overwhelming; John makes a mental note to rethink his opinion of starting sessions in public places-- he’s not sure he’s fond of feeling so _exposed._

But that’s a thought for another time. For now, he simply pushes his way through the doors to find Sherlock standing beside an idling cab, shifting eagerly from foot to foot. The moment he sees John, he turns and clambers inside, John following closely behind him. He rattles off their address to the cabbie, and then they lapse into a thick, oppressive silence.

John takes a moment to collect himself. He’d had enough time while _observing_ Sherlock and Aaron to sketch out a hasty outline of what he’d like to happen tonight; there was something special he’d been planning for Sherlock, ever since he’d heard Madame La Roux suggest it, and it feels like tonight would be the perfect night to try it out. But first, he needs to bring them both into the proper headspace. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and begins.

He reaches down to unfasten his own belt. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, anticipating what comes next. He knows Sherlock expects him to open his flies, pull out his cock, and make Sherlock suck him off in the back of the cab; it wouldn’t be the first time he’s gone that route, and he knows Sherlock is _more_ than amenable to that prospect. 

But tonight is about _surprise,_ about catching him off-guard, doing the unexpected, and he notes Sherlock shifts uncomfortably as John sits forward and proceeds to move his belt entirely. For a moment he just waits, allowing Sherlock to sink into the breathless anticipation of the unknown as John coils the length of leather in his hands.

The he turns, meeting Sherlock’s eyes for the first time. They’re wide and vulnerable, and his gaze is rapt with desperation. John gives him a wicked smile.

“Hold still.” He reaches forward and threads his belt around Sherlock’s neck, pulling the end all the way through the buckle until he’s holding it tight like a leash. Sherlock blinks rapidly, breaths coming in uneven puffs, clearly struggling to process what was about to happen to him.

“Don’t move.” With that, John reaches up to the back of Sherlock’s neck with one hand to hold the buckle firmly in place, and with the other, he pulls the tail hard enough to cut off his air supply entirely.

Sherlock utters an aborted gasp, and for a moment, John thinks he may struggle. But it turns out his fears were unfounded; it was simply Sherlock’s fight-or-flight instinct kicking in, an inevitable biological reaction that they’ve both learned to anticipate when they’re dabbling in breathplay. It passes in an instant, and the next thing John knows, Sherlock goes lax beneath his hands, allowing John to choke him out without so much as a word of protest. He sits stock still, back ramrod straight, eyes dark and unseeing, as he submits to John’s advances.

Breathplay used to scare the shit out of John. Not so much the practice of it, but the _idea_ of it, of having Sherlock so completely at his mercy. It wasn’t that John was scared he wouldn’t enjoy it; rather, he was afraid he’d enjoy it _too much,_ get carried away, lose himself and cause Sherlock harm…

But once they’d started, John realised that the exact opposite was true: breathplay made him feel grounded and utterly in control. It forced him to center himself, to use his knowledge as a doctor and a caregiver to bring Sherlock to the edge of harm, without ever letting him truly be in danger. It brought John into his dominant headspace in a way that felt both consuming and affirming, and he knows now that there are few joys in his life greater than being granted the power to control the very breath of the man he loves. It is a beautiful, exquisite privilege.

John reaches his maximum count and releases his grip on the belt, allowing it to loosen just enough for Sherlock to suck in a few sharp, shallow breaths. Once John is sure he’s had sufficient oxygen intake, he yanks the belt tight once more. Sherlock leans back into the seat, and closes his eyes, letting the sensation of surrender wash over him.

John repeats the process five more times. Beside him, Sherlock all but melts, occasionally blinking his eyes open to peer up at John, the look of complete and utter _trust_ on his face so goddamn awe-inspiring that it takes all of John’s willpower to not just flip him over and take him then and there. But no, hell no, that part was only for them, in the safety of their flat, where he’d take Sherlock and make sure he was safe before truly pulling him entirely apart. He’d never allow him to be that vulnerable in front of prying eyes.

Before he can begin the next round, they’re turning onto Baker Street. John relinquishes his grip on the end of the belt as nonchalantly as possible, and Sherlock gulps in a ragged breath of air as he’s allowed to breathe unrestricted for the first time since the ride began. John leans over until his lips are touching the shell of Sherlock’s ear.

“I want you to go upstairs and take off your clothes. Leave on my tags, and keep the belt around your neck. Be on your knees in the sitting room when I arrive. Understood?”

“Yes, John.” His voice sounds hoarse, and John smiles in satisfaction as the cab pulls to a halt.

“Alright, sweetheart. Off you go.” 

Sherlock tumbles from the taxi and scampers towards the front door before John even has a chance to pull out his wallet. He takes his time paying the cabbie (including extra tip, just in case the poor bloke had happened to notice what was going on in his back seat), then makes the trip upstairs at a slow, measured pace, giving Sherlock time to prepare.

He flings open the front door, expecting to be greeted by a wanton, naked consulting detective, kneeling and ready to be ravaged.

Instead, he’s greeted by the vision of Sherlock, still dressed, standing beside the desk with his hip cocked to the side, belt still hanging loosely around his neck, typing furiously into his goddamn _phone._ John stops dead in his tracks.

“What the fuck?”

Sherlock flicks a glance over to him, then reverts his eyes to the screen. “Sorry, John, I’ll be just a moment.”

John feels like the floor has dropped out from under him. His stomach twists traitorously, and he can feel a hot swell of anger rising up inside him. “You’ll just be a _moment?_ I don’t recall saying you were allowed to look at your phone, _darling.”_ The word is a warning: Sherlock hates that pet name, and John only uses it when he’s trying to take Sherlock down and Sherlock is fighting his dominance.

Sherlock glares surily up at him. “Well, Aaron wanted to make sure we got home alright, so I was just telling him--”

Red. Everything is red with rage. John feels as though a mushroom cloud has gone off inside his head; he can barely formulate his next thought.

“So instead of doing what I told you to do, you decided to text _Aaron?”_

Sherlock tips his head sassily to the side. “Problem?”

Well, shit. It was one of _those_ nights.

Most of the time when they were Unwinding, Sherlock went down without a fight. They’d come to a mutual agreement that they were ready for a session, John would start giving orders, and Sherlock would comply, no questions asked.

But then there were times like tonight, when Sherlock was in the mood for something rougher, more intense. For a while they’d dialed back any violent foreplay during their sessions and Sherlock had abstained from goading John on, but he’d recently let it be known that sometimes, he _needed_ John to force him, and John had reluctantly acquiesced.

Which brought them here, to this moment. John takes a deep breath and formulates a plan; Sherlock being in a fighting mood didn’t necessarily derail his plans for the evening… in fact, it just might make it even _better._

John licks his lips and steels his gaze. “Yes, darling, that _is_ a problem. Because you belong to _me._ Not to Aaron, or anyone else who dares to put his goddamn hands on you. You gave yourself to me, and me alone. You’re mine, and it seems tonight, you need a little reminder of that.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

John attacks. 

He moves quickly and with purpose; though he’s well-trained in hand-to-hand combat, Sherlock still has several inches on him, and is no stranger to martial arts himself. When they grapple, they’re a startlingly even match, and John knows he must rely on his wits if he’s going to come out ahead.

He lowers his right shoulder as he approaches, feinting a grab at Sherlock’s left leg. Sherlock spins easily away from him, but the motion leaves his back momentarily exposed. John takes full advantage, pouncing onto him and reaching over his shoulder to grab the tail end of the belt before yanking it back, _hard._

But Sherlock is too quick: before the belt can cut off his airflow, he’s reached up and forced his hands through the loop, pulling it away from his throat. He turns, listing dangerously with John’s added weight on his back, before stumbling forward into the centre of the room.

John raises his right leg and kicks the back of Sherlock’s knee as hard as he dares. The move is effective; Sherlock is off-balance enough that the buckling causes him to go down instantly, and he’s forced to relinquish his hold on the belt in order to catch himself with both palms. John pulls the belt tight, constricting tightly around Sherlock’s throat, and with his other hand, he grabs his hair and _pulls._

Sherlock gives an anguished cry, more animal than human, back arching enticingly as he struggles to alleviate the strain on both his throat and his follicles. John doubles down on his efforts, twisting his hair and pulling his head to the side, tightening the belt enough that while it won’t cut off Sherlock’s air flow entirely, it will still keep him from struggling further.

For a moment, Sherlock still shifts frantically, looking for an out. Finding none, his body goes lax, and he lets out a breathy, wet whimper.

 _“There_ we go, darling, easy now…” John gives his hair another tug and Sherlock moans, pressing his arse deliberately back against what John quickly realises is his own throbbing erection. He hisses as the thrill of pleasure sweeps through him, and then grinds forward against Sherlock’s plush globes. “Fuck, sweetheart, you are being _very_ naughty tonight. Going to need to teach you a lesson…”

Sherlock whines again, and John has to bite back a moan of his own. “Going to fuck you now, love.” Sherlock utters a pathetic little cry against the leather biting into his throat. “No, no protests now, darling, this is what you need. Now hold still.” With that, he lets go of Sherlock’s hair, and reaches around him to unfasten his belt and flies. He jerks down his trousers and pants unceremoniously, still keeping the end of the belt wrapped tightly in his fist, should Sherlock decide to make a run for it. Once Sherlock’s arse is properly exposed, he frees his own cock from its fabric prison and slots it into Sherlock’s crack, where he begins to thrust.

“Mmmm, that’s lovely, so fucking lovely, gonna _wreck_ you tonight, sweetheart, gonna remind you who you belong to, fuck…”

“Whom.”

The word rings out like a shot in the silence. John freezes, and he can detect that Sherlock’s muscles have all stiffened in anticipation of his reaction.

“Jesus Christ, you must _really_ have it in for yourself tonight, darling. Things are _not_ looking pleasant for you. Now hold STILL.” With that, he gives the belt a warning tug, then reaches into his jacket pocket to procure the tiny packets of lube he’s taken to storing there for situations like this one, in which waiting was not exactly an option.

He tears it open with his teeth, then coats his cock as best he can without relinquishing his grip on the end of the belt. Before him, Sherlock is trembling in anticipation, and John feels nearly dizzy with desire. He presses his slick fingers roughly into Sherlock’s tight hole, eliciting a grunt from the man before him. He twists them a few times; it’s a perfunctory preparation, devoid of any sensuality, but he knows that right now, Sherlock needs it to be rough.

As soon as he’s deemed it safe, he withdraws his fingers, gives his cock a few slick pumps, and rams it inside.

“AAAUGH! FUCK! FUCK!”

“I’m certainly endeavoring to.” John keeps the comment as cold as possible, devoid of any affection, and then rapidly begins to piston into Sherlock’s vice-tight passage.

“NNNNGH! AH! AH! AUUUUUGH!”

“Shhh, love, keep it down or Mrs. Turner will call the cops again and ruin all our fun.” He’s struggling to keep his tone even; Sherlock’s arse feels fucking _incredible,_ so hot and tight he feels like he can barely breathe with the delicious sensation of it, but he needs to take this opportunity to assert his control.

“Nh! Nh! Nh!” Sherlock’s wails turn to helpless whimpers, and John grins. He lets go of the end of the belt, and reaches around to give Sherlock’s turgid cock a few light tugs.

Big mistake. The moment Sherlock feels the pressure around his neck subside, he rears up, unseating John entirely, sending him tumbling back onto his arse in the middle of the sitting room floor. He scrambles desperately to his feet, and darts off towards the kitchen.

John doesn’t waste a moment. Though he had indeed been caught off-guard, he still had his trousers most of the way up, where as Sherlock’s were trapped awkwardly halfway down his thighs, restricting his stride. He rights himself quickly and bolts towards Sherlock’s point of egress, cutting him off from the hallway and trapping him beside the kitchen table. Sherlock stutters, attempting to reverse directions, but John is too quick for him; he lunges forward and grabs the end of the belt, pulls it taut, and with his other hand grabs Sherlock’s arm, forcing it behind his back and slamming Sherlock face-down onto the table.

Sherlock wails helplessly as John holds him there, pinned and immobilised, squirming in discomfort.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight, _darling,_ but this is your last chance. Hold still and take it, or mark my words, there will be hell to pay.”

There’s an infinite pause, in which Sherlock seems to be considering his choices, and John holds his breath. Then, to his infinite relief, he relaxes onto the tabletop and spreads his legs. 

“That’s more like it. Now ask me.”

Sherlock whimpers and buries his face into the table. John tightens his grip on the belt, and Sherlock gasps. “Last chance, sweetheart.”

“P-please.” The word is barely a whisper.

“What did you say? I can’t hear you.”

“P-please.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me, John.”

John makes an exasperated tutting sound. “Oh, _now_ you want me to fuck you? After you’ve let another man touch you, kiss you, put his fucking hands all over your body, _now_ you want my cock?”

Sherlock nods miserably, bowing his back to present his arse. “Please, John… I need it, need you, please, make me yours, remind me--”

Before he can utter another word, John impales him in a single brutal stroke.

“GAH!” Sherlock throws his head back, and John takes advantage of the angle to tighten his grip on the belt; again, not enough to cut off his air flow, but enough to restrict it considerably. Sherlock stills, locked into place by the leather around his neck, his arm trapped behind him, and John’s stiff length inside of him.

John moves. It’s not graceful or delicate, and it doesn’t last very long, but fuck, that’s not what this was about. This was about claiming Sherlock, bringing him down, marrying his body and mind into that sweet, subservient place that he only ever lets John take him. He twitches and grunts a bit as John as his way with his body, but he doesn’t struggle or protest. He’s surrendered at last.

John comes in a strong, solid release. It’s warm and sharp and so damn satisfying, and Sherlock moans like a whore as John pumps his load into him, eyes rolling back in his head as he fills him up. 

Finally, the ecstasy wanes. John grinds his softening prick into Sherlock’s prone body until he becomes too sensitive to continue and reluctantly pulls out, eliciting a moan from the man in front of him. He relinquishes his grip on the belt, tossing it haphazardly aside, then takes a few steps back, tucking himself back into his trousers and zipping up. Sherlock remains bent over the kitchen table, trembling, exposed, and leaking in a most delicious manner. John smiles.

“There we go, sweetheart, lovely. Stand up.” Sherlock complies instantly, turning to face John, his expression dazed. John glances down and notes Sherlock’s cock is so hard it’s pulsing in front of him, a deep, flushed red. Perfect. Fucking perfect.

“Bedroom. Now. Crawl.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap up to meet John’s, an unspoken question in them: _Really?_

John simply gives him a brief nod.

Sherlock breaks into a dazzling grin, drops to his hands and knees, and proceeds to crawl towards the bedroom, arching his back and swaying his hips suggestively, his movements impeded only slightly by his trousers, which are still wrapped around his thighs, leaving his gorgeous arse exposed. John follows him, admiring the view.

John’s still on the fence when it comes to crawling. He and Sherlock had just started experimenting with it a few months back, and they had decidedly different opinions of it: Sherlock flat-out _adored_ it, but for John, it often felt awkward and just a little _too_ strange. While John was certainly the last person who would ever kink-shame Sherlock, the sight of him crawling through the flat had made John feel uneasy, as though they were perhaps taking things a bit too far.

So they’d kept the crawling to a minimum, and then John had had his _episode_ and called off the Unwinding altogether, and they hadn’t experimented with crawling since they’d started making brief, tentative forays back into the practice. Tonight was the first time John’s asked for it.

And it’s… unobjectionable. He’s pleased to find that it doesn’t make him feel unsettled tonight, just rather politely ambivalent. Even so, the look of bliss on Sherlock’s face when they reach the bedroom is enough to convince him that perhaps it’s worth it.

Sherlock reaches the side of the bed and remains on his knees, sitting back on his haunches with his hands folded in his lap, awaiting orders.

John strides confidently into the room, opens up the drawer of the nightstand, procures Sherlock’s vibrating plug and a tube of lube, and drops them both into his lap.

“Put that inside yourself.”

Sherlock blinks up at him, looking a bit lost. “You… you don’t want to do it?”

John shrugs. “I have other preparations to make.”

“Oh.” Sherlock looks a bit crestfallen, but he still resolutely picks up the lube, coats his fingers, and reaches behind himself with a wince, preparing himself for the insertion of the device.

John wants nothing more than to stay and watch the proceedings, but he knows that would be giving Sherlock too much leverage. Instead, he feigns nonchalance as he makes his way over to the foot of the bed, where he retrieves the full-length mirror they kept there. He picks it up, then re-positions it leaning against the wall between the doors to the bedroom and the bathroom. From his place on the floor, Sherlock shoots him a curious look, but he doesn’t inquire; he simply continues to work his fingers into himself, his breaths coming in quick, harsh gasps as he attempts to ignore his throbbing erection. 

Next, John opens up the closet and rummages about until he finds the box he’s looking for. He returns just in time to see the grimace on Sherlock’s face as he slides the large plug into himself, his brow dewey with sweat, eyes scrunched closed with the effort.

“Ah!” Plug apparently seated, Sherlock’s eyes flutter open, coming to rest upon John, still holding the box in his hand. He gives the box one look, and his face lights up like it’s Christmas morning-- or at the very least, the scene of a particularly gruesome triple murder.

“John?” His voice is so full of hopeful trepidation, John can’t help but smile down at him.

“Come over here, love, and take off your clothes. Let’s make you look beautiful.”

Sherlock scrambles to comply so quickly, John’s frankly shocked he doesn’t get tangled in his own trousers. Still, he manages to divest himself of his garments in record time, leaving them in a messy pile on the ground. John lets it slide, for now - he hadn’t told Sherlock to fold them, so there was no real harm in it. Before he knows it, Sherlock is standing before him, naked and beaming and visibly giddy with anticipation. 

“Where do you want me, John?”

“Come sit in this chair, love.” He gestures towards the chair beside the wardrobe.

Sherlock blinks rapidly, processing the new command; in all the times that he and John have used Japanese bondage techniques, Sherlock had either been lying down on the bed, kneeling, or standing; John had never made him sit before. Still, he doesn’t question the command; he just shoots John a coy look before folding gracefully into the chair, barely wincing as his arse makes contact with the seat, shifting the plug in side of him. 

John takes a deep breath, opens the box, and pulls out the lengths of jet-black jute rope inside.

The pattern he wants to do tonight is one he’s been ogling for ages. The first time he’d watched Madame La Roux demonstrate it, he’d had to pause the video no fewer than four times to jerk off, each time bookmarking it and then returning to it an hour later only to yield the same results. However, the techniques involved were advanced - far more so than anything John’s attempted up until that point. But tonight, he wants to put Sherlock entirely under his control, and restraining him head to toe ought to do just the trick.

“Put your arms up on the armrests, yes, just like that, sweetheart. You remember our rules: No moving or speaking unless it’s to snap or tell me something doesn’t feel right, or you want to stop. I’ll be restricting your movement but not your blood flow, so if you feel any sensations of tingling or numbness, I need you to tell me immediately. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“The bind I’m planning for tonight includes your legs as well as your arms, so you’ll be completely immobilised. Is that okay with you?” He always checkers with Sherlock when he’s planning to restrain his legs; Sherlock once mentioned during one of their post-mortems that having his arms bound rarely bothered him, but something about having his legs restrained occasionally made him feel panicky. John wants to make sure he’s feeling up to the challenge tonight.

A violent shudder works its way up Sherlock’s spine, and John watches with faint amusement as Sherlock’s cock twitches eagerly between his legs. “Yes, please, John.”

“Mmm, good. You’ve changed your tune, hmm, being nice and polite for me now? Is that what happens when I put my come in you, you get all docile and sweet for me?” He reaches down and ruffles Sherlock’s hair affectionately, and Sherlock leans into his touch.

“Yes, John. Thank you, John.”

“You’re welcome, love. Now stay there.” John turns and makes his way to the bathroom to retrieve the medical shears from under the sink (he always makes sure to have them on-hand when they’re playing with bondage, in case he needs to cut the ropes in an emergency). He’s not concerned about Sherlock running away anymore; usually once he’d been taken, he grew endearingly complacent.

He returns to the bedroom, and sure enough, Sherlock is sitting stock-still, belt still loosely draped around his neck, accenting the gleaming silver of John’s dog tags, arms resolutely resting on the armrests, legs spread just enough to make the vision of his turgid cock rising between them beautifully obscene.

John grins. “Alright, sweetheart. Let’s get started.” He picks up a length of rope and arranges it across Sherlock’s chest, cautious to frame it directly across his sternum. Sherlock bites his lip, and sighs.

It takes a long time. The bind itself involved a chest harness and full restraints on both arms and legs, each involving a different pattern and complex forms of knotwork. John had watched Madame La Roux’s video on it often enough (once he managed to stop furiously wanking to it) that the process feels familiar, but it’s always different in practice than in theory. Not only that, but Sherlock’s body has drastically different dimensions than the mannequin Madame uses to demonstrate, so John has to take extra care to measure out the positioning of his knots, ensuring they rest on the correct pressure points.

Beneath his hands, Sherlock is statuesque and solemn. He’s completely still as John works on him, save for the occasional twitch of his desperate prick, but he doesn’t acknowledge his own arousal.

And Christ, this is what John adores so much about _Kinbaku:_ it gives him the opportunity to watch Sherlock submit to him in a sense that isn’t inherently _sexual._ Of course, the undertones are consumingly sexual (Sherlock’s raging erection being the least of it), but the act of restraining him has nothing to do with genitals or sexual stimulation or intercourse; it’s being aroused by the mere _act_ of submission, and they both adore it in equal measure.

By the time John has finished, nearly an hour has passed. Sherlock remains fully erect, and John’s pleased to note he’s grown half-hard in his trousers himself-- excellent timing for what he knows he wants next. Triumphantly, he steps back to admire his work.

And God, oh _God,_ Sherlock is a damn MASTERPIECE. His pale ivory skin looks exquisite traversed by the lengths of jet-black rope. The pattern frames his sinewy muscles beautifully, accenting his sharp angles in all the right places, giving the illusion of curves in others. His nipples are pebbled and hard with arousal, and his swollen shaft is the exclamation point on the obscene tableau. John gives a sigh of satisfaction.

“Christ, sweetheart, you look beautiful. What do you think?”

Sherlock is staring dazedly into the full-length mirror across from him, his expression blown blank with lust. “It’s good, John. It’s so… it’s really, really good.” His voice has gone low and gravelly, and he can’t seem to tear his eyes off of his own reflection. “I love it.”

John grins. “Good, I’m glad you like it, love. I like it, too.” He approaches Sherlock slowly, and reaches forward to fondle his nipples, gently twisting them between his fingers. Sherlock gasps, his eyes fluttering shut as he surrenders to the sensation.

“Sweetheart, open your eyes and look at me.” Sherlock complies instantly. John continues to pluck at his nipples as he speaks to him in a calm, measured tone. “So here’s what’s going to happen next: You’ve been very good for me, letting me tie you up like this. But I’m afraid that doesn’t change the fact that you were very, very bad tonight.”

He can see tears spring to Sherlock’s eyes, but he doesn’t relent, and he continues his ministrations on his chest. “So now it’s time for your punishment, love. But first, I need you to tell me what you did wrong.”

Sherlock nods tearfully. “I… I let another man touch me.”

John just cocks his head and raises his eyebrows.

“I… I let him put his hands and his lips on my body. And… and I touched his body, too.”

“Did that turn you on?”

Sherlock’s voice drops low to a whisper. “Yes, John. I’m sorry, John.”

John pinches his nipples in tandem, eliciting a yelp from the man restrained before him. “That’s _very_ bad, sweetheart. Because you’re mine, aren’t you?”

Sherlock nods frantically. “Yes, John.”

John licks his lips and glares down at him. Sherlock seems suddenly frantic.

“I’m yours, John, only yours. You’re… you’re the only man I’ve ever let fuck me, the only man who’s ever been inside me, the only man I’ve ever let take me like this. P-please, John, believe me, I’ve only ever given myself to you…”

John gives him the faintest hint of a smile. “That’s right, love. Christ, remember the night I took your virginity?”

Sherlock’s eyes slam shut and he utters a desperate whine, pressing his chest up into John’s hands as far as he can while still firmly secured to the chair.

“Mmm, I’d never been inside someone so tight, love. It was like you’d been saving that gorgeous arse all for me, yeah?”

Sherlock wails as John twists his nipples, and a pulse of precome leaks from the tip of his cock. “Y-yes, John, all for you…”

“God, your virgin hole looked so gorgeous stretched around my cock… fuck, still does, you know, you’re as tight as the day I first took you, sweetheart. Remember how hard you came with me inside you, that first time? All over your own fist while I railed you from behind--”

Sherlock’s eyes fly open, and suddenly he’s glaring up at John, eyes filled with desperation. “Fuck, John, stop, I’m going to-- fuck, I’m going to come if you keep going like that, _shit--”_

John pulls his hands away and steps back immediately. Though it was rare, he had once made Sherlock come from nipple stimulation alone, and despite the fact it had been _incredibly_ hot, he doesn’t want to give him any such satisfaction tonight.

“Alright, love, deep breath-- thank you for letting me know you were too close, that was very good.”

Sherlock takes a shaky breath, bringing himself back from the brink. John watches with stern resolve as Sherlock grips the arms of the chair tightly, his knuckles whitening with the effort, but eventually manages to calm himself enough to open his eyes once more, and John meets his gaze.

“Well, I suppose that’s enough of that. Might as well get on with your punishment now, hmm?”

Sherlock nods reluctantly. Without further ado, John begins to strip off his own clothes, casting them haphazardly into the same pile as Sherlock’s. He doesn’t make an ordeal of it; he simply wills himself to focus his mind on what he wants to happen next.

Finally, he’s nude, and he can feel Sherlock’s eyes raking across his own form, but he ignores him entirely. Instead, he casually flings the duvet off the bed, then bends to rummage through the nightstand drawer. He fingers close around the item he’s looking for: the small, slim vibrating wand. He plucks it from the depths and retrieves the lube off the floor, and with a satisfied sigh he climbs onto the bed, reclining against the pillows, spreading his legs salaciously.

“J-John?” Sherlock sounds completely confused, and John knows why-- they only ever use the slim vibrating wand when they’re playing with double-penetration on Sherlock… at least, as far as Sherlock knows. But John has a few tricks up his sleeve that Sherlock’s not yet been privy to.

When he responds, John’s tone is curt. “Shhh, love, keep quiet over there. I’m busy. Don’t disturb me.”

He pours a bit of lube onto his fingers, then spreads his legs even further, exposing his own hole. He reaches back, and begins to lightly finger himself open.

The sound Sherlock makes is somewhere between a moan and a wail, and John has to bite the inside of his own cheek to keep from breaking. Sherlock sounds so completely _shocked,_ almost _scandalised,_ that it’s all John can do to keep from giggling in maniacal glee.

John partaking in any type of anal play was exceedingly rare. While he’d objectively learned to appreciate the sensation of being penetrated, he’d very quickly discovered that he, like many men, was unable to maintain an erection during penetration, and attaining orgasm in such a state was off the table entirely.

The good news was, he and Sherlock were on the same page in regards to their respective positions. While Sherlock enjoyed topping from time to time, he’d admitted to John that he found the sensations incredibly overwhelming, to the point that more than once, he’d had to pull out and call off the encounter altogether. It was simply too much _input,_ he’d explained. Sherlock was extremely sensitive to external stimuli, so during sex, he relied on John to take the lead so that he could simply relax and enjoy himself without becoming overwhelmed. John appreciated Sherlock’s honesty, and was honoured that Sherlock trusted him to take the reins during their sexual encounters; it was a duty he took incredibly seriously, and for the most part, neither of them felt the need to switch up their routine simply for variety’s sake.

That said, anal play remained a source of perpetual _curiosity_ for John. Back when he’d first offered to let Sherlock top him, he’d experimented a bit on his own, with fingers and the vibrator, attempting to understand what it was about it that made Sherlock go cross-eyed with lust and come like a damn porn star. His results had been mixed: his fingers did nothing for him, really, and while the vibrator felt _amazing,_ his erection still flagged, and he’d been unable to reach climax. 

Yet he hadn’t been ready to let it go. The pleasure he experienced with the vibrator pressed firmly against his prostate seemed to _haunt_ him: the sensation of being helplessly, dizzyingly aroused, while relief remained just out of his grasp. He yearned to experience what Sherlock did when he was screaming his way through an intense prostate orgasm, face contorted in blinding ecstasy as his body delivered an earth-shattering release. He wanted to _understand._

So he’d taken it upon himself to do a little more experimentation, in his private time.

He’d tried the vibrator again, but to no avail; he remained at half-mast, sweating, swearing, tugging futilely at his uncooperative shaft while shivers of pleasure wracked their way up his spine over and over again, to the point he felt almost nauseous with the need to orgasm.

He’d considered trying the vibrating anal plug - Sherlock insisted he loved that damn thing more than all his other toys combined; hell, he’d given it a bloody _name,_ he liked it so much. Overall, it had a much wider girth than the regular vibrator, so John hypothesised that perhaps it would help to have _more_ pressure inside him, and decided to investigate. But once John had pulled it out of the drawer and taken a good, hard look at the circumference of it, he’d felt rather lightheaded and decided he’d rather not. While Sherlock may get off on having his hole stretched wide and overused, the idea was massively unappealing when John considered doing it to himself, and he’d abandoned the prospect entirely.

But then a few weeks ago, John had been cleaning out their drawer (changing the batteries in the toys that were running low, replenishing their lube supplies, and making sure they had condoms on-hand for the rare occasions they decided to use one), he happened upon the vibrating wand.

And that… well, that was a rather curious prospect indeed.

So at the next possible opportunity, he shucked his clothes, grabbed the bottle of lube and the little wand, and gotten down to business.

He hadn’t been successful right off the bat, but the results were encouraging enough, he’d felt he was at least on the right path. The first time he tried it, he was actually able to maintain an erection whilst stimulating himself from inside; the wand was slimmer than his fingers, but longer, and it barely stretched him at all as he pressed it against his sweet spot. The stimulation against his prostate in the absence of any strain to his channel seemed to be just the trick to keeping himself hard. He hadn’t been able to get off on it, but he’d eventually pulled out the wand and run it along his shaft, and he’d come moments later in a shuddering, consuming blaze.

It wasn’t until the fourth or fifth time he tried it that he achieved the ultimate success. He honestly hadn’t been expecting it; he’d been pressing the wand against his prostate in light, rhythmic undulations as he gently stroked his turgid shaft in his lube-slick fist, coasting on the wave of pleasure, relaxing into the sensations. Then all of a sudden, he could feel his balls pull up tight to his body, and the telltale sensation of pressure coiling deep in his sac triggered the most basic instinct in his brain. He’d gripped his cock hard and jerked it relentlessly as he pushed the wand firmly against the bundle of nerves inside of him, and before he knew it, he was expelling a frankly alarming amount of semen across his abs, up his chest, and some even hitting him as far up as his throat. The entire experience had been so intense that he’s fairly certain he’d blacked out for a moment.

_Eureka._

He’d practiced a few more times since then, and was delighted to discover he was able to attain orgasm every time. Consistency was important; he didn’t want to offer to reveal his new trick to Sherlock, only to experience an untimely bout of impotence and leave them both feeling awkward and disappointed.

But now, he was finally ready to show Sherlock.

He works a second finger into himself, distributing the lube evenly around his hole. Despite the fact that the wand was so slim he barely needed any prep at all, he wants Sherlock to be completely overcome with what he was missing… hell, he wants to give him a little show. He begins to twist and scissor his fingers, letting out a wanton groan. His cock has softened a bit, but John ignores it for now; he knows he’ll get hard again as soon as he stops stretching his passage.

He’s dying to hazard a glance over to the chair to see how Sherlock is reacting, but he doesn’t dare. Madame La Roux had been explicit with her instructions that for this to work, he must not give his sub a single hint that he’s aware of his mere existence; this has to seem like it’s all about _John._

With a satisfied hum, he withdraws his fingers and traces his wet rim gently, showing himself off for the man affixed to the chair across the room. Sherlock makes a strange, muffled sound, like a bitten-off cry, but then lapses immediately back into silence, so John decides not to reprimand him.

Instead, he reaches over and picks up the wand, slicks it up, and guides it gently inside himself before switching it on.

“Oh, God, _John…”_ Sherlock’s voice is so low it’s barely a whisper, but it sounds as if he’s nearly drowning in desperation. _Perfect._

With a wicked grin, John begins to gently undulate the wand inside himself, grazing it gently over his prostate in soft, fluid movements, just the way he knows his body likes it best. Then he brings his free hand to his shaft, and strokes himself to full hardness.

 _“Ohhhhhh…”_ He moans theatrically, spreading his legs even further before raising his thighs up to his chest, exposing himself entirely for Sherlock’s observation. Christ, he can remember a time when the mere _thought_ of anal penetration would have scared the shit out of him (pun intended), and yet here he was, engaging in an act of pure, intimate vulnerability, all for the pleasure of the man watching him. God, how far Sherlock’s brought him, how much he’s _changed_ him, in wild, wonderful, _consuming_ ways, guiding John outside his comfort zone and into a new realm of pleasure that before meeting Sherlock, John would have thought unfathomable…

“Ahhhhhh _oh, FUCK! Yes, God, mmmmmm yeah…”_ John begins to move the wand faster, and the hand stroking his shaft picks up the pace. “Mmm! Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!” He tips his pelvis back, giving the wand a more direct impact on his prostate, and he’s hit with another wave of crippling arousal. “Oh, oh, yeah, yeah, mmmmmmm, YES, God, OH!”

His orgasm sneaks up on him. Regardless of his best efforts, he’s yet to be able to accurately discern when he’s about to topple over the edge when his pleasure is originating from his prostate instead of his shaft. It’s an entirely different sensation, and one he’s just learning to appreciate, but it still takes him by surprise; one instant he feels simply pleasantly aroused, the next, he’s caught up in the throes of all-consuming ecstasy, drilling into his prostate with the wand as his shaft shoots a large load of come up his torso.

“NNNNNNGAHHH! AH! AH! AH!” He curls in on himself as he rides out his euphoria, limbs trembling with the effort, abs clenching, his fist flying over his shaft as he coaxes the last of his release onto his soaked stomach. 

Slowly, he blinks his eyes open. He’s heaving in ragged, desperate breaths, and his cock feels hot and heavy in his hand. He releases his grip on it instantly; he’s suddenly blisteringly oversensitive in the wake of such an intense release, and he quickly pulls out the wand and flicks it off. His arms and legs fall limply to his sides, and then he lies there, unmoving, letting his body recover as his brain gorges itself on the oxytocin and dopamine flooding his system.

For the briefest of moments, there’s nothing he wants more than to drift off into a deep and sated sleep. But then he remembers the source of all this pleasure: Sherlock, still bound and helpless, waiting for John to absolve him of his misdeeds. John mustn’t leave him hanging a moment longer.

He pushes himself up onto his elbows and swings his legs off the bed, cringing only slightly at the slight twinge of discomfort as he sits up. The he looks over to see how Sherlock is faring.

He looks _destroyed._ He’s shaking from head to toe, straining against his bindings so hard that John call already see his pale skin beginning to redden and chafe. His pupils are blown wide, and he’s chewing on his lip so hard he seems to have drawn blood.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

When Sherlock speaks, his voice is cracked and brittle. “J-John.... God, John… Please, please, _God…”_ He shakes even harder as he trails off, desperate for _something_ but unable to vocalise what, precisely, it is.

“Shhh, love, you’re okay, you’re alright.” John rises unsteadily to his feet and makes his way over to gently cup Sherlock’s face in his hands. He dabs at his lip with his thumb, wiping away the droplet of blood resting there, then leans down and kisses him, deep and dirty. Sherlock melts against his mouth. 

John pulls away, eliciting a whimper from Sherlock. “It’s alright, shhh, shhh, you’re okay now, everything’s okay. Going to make you feel good now, yeah? You were so good for me, sweetheart, so quiet and good while you watched, going to give you a little reward now, hmm?”

Sherlock nods frantically. “Yes, please… _please.”_

John gives him his warmest, most reassuring smile. Then he reaches down to where the belt still hangs loosely around Sherlock’s neck, and raises it up until the leather is pressing against his lips. “Open up. There we go, nice and easy…” He fastens the belt behind Sherlock’s head and then wraps the end around the slat at the top of the chair, gagging Sherlock and immobilising his head in one fell swoop. Sherlock whines against the tough leather stuffed between his teeth, and John traces his plush, parted lips with his finger. “Very nice. You’ll be very still and good like this, yeah? Let me use you how I want?”

Sherlock issues a garbled reply that John can’t quite make out around the leather of his gag, but John simply gives a brisk nod in response and returns to the nightstand to procure a condom from the drawer. Then he grabs the lube from off the bed, and returns to stand in front of Sherlock, who is staring up at him with a wild, desperate look in his eyes.

“It’s okay, love. I’ll make it all okay, now.” And with that, John tears open the condom and rolls it onto Sherlock’s throbbing prick. Sherlock hisses and attempts to thrust up into the contact, but he’s tied down too tightly to make much progress; John just chuckles in response. Then he pours a bit of lube into his palm and slicks up Sherlock’s length. Sherlock screams against his gag.

“There we go, nice and ready, aren’t you? I’m going to make you feel good, love. You don’t have to be quiet anymore. Just let yourself feel good.” And with that. John turns to face away from him, spreads his legs, reaches behind himself to steady Sherlock’s prick, and lines it up with his hole. Then he begins to slowly, gently lower himself onto it.

It’s… a stretch. John’s not a huge fan of the initial act of penetration. Unlike Sherlock, who’s always asserted that his favourite moment during sex was the bright burst of pain that accompanied the first stroke of his impalement, John has found that any pain whatsoever is enough to cause his erection to flag entirely. But tonight, he’s already taken care of himself; his own pleasure is no longer of any consequence to him. This is all about Sherlock.

He raises and lowers himself in minute increments, sliding further down Sherlock’s shaft with each oscillation. Eventually he’s able to release his hold on Sherlock’s cock and reach forward to steady himself with his hands on Sherlock’s thighs, and with a breathy sigh, he slides the rest of the way down until his cheeks are resting firmly on Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock wails and wriggles helplessly beneath him, but it’s to no avail; he’s bound too tightly to make any difference at all. The thought fills John with a heady rush of power; he’s got Sherlock completely at his mercy. With that thought in mind, he begins to bounce.

He keeps his strokes long and deep and just this side of rough. Sherlock’s cock feels thick and rock-hard inside his passage, and he has to confess, he doesn’t half-mind the sensation; now that he’s had his own orgasm, his channel feels relaxed and receptive to the invasion, and he doesn’t have to worry about whether his prick is going to stay in the game. He simply concentrates on riding Sherlock, hard and fast, yanking pleasure from him in commanding, encompassing form.

Beneath him, he’s fairly certain Sherlock is screaming in ecstasy. John can’t really make out any more than that through the rough bite of leather still clamped between his teeth, but the sound certainly _seems_ to be one of pleasure. He hazards a glance up at the full-length mirror in front of them, just to check on Sherlock’s face, to be sure.

And God, oh GOD, they are a vision. Sherlock looks so goddamn beautiful, bound and gagged and utterly at John’s mercy, while on top of him, John can’t help but admire the way his own muscular form looks rising and falling over and over onto Sherlock’s aching cock (he takes a mental note that it certainly seems that all the rugby and extra visits to the gym were paying off-- he honestly doesn’t look half bad, he thinks with a smirk). John’s flaccid cock is bouncing obscenely in time with the rhythm of their coupling, but for once, the sight of it doesn’t bother him; if anything, it adds to the vulgar tableau the two of them make as Sherlock tumbles closer and closer to the edge.

“OH! Yeah, yeah, sweetheart, fuck, yes, fuck me, just like that, mmmmm, your cock feels so good, FUCK, fuck, yeah, mmmmm….” John lets his head fall back against Sherlock’s, and John arches his back, causing his channel to clamp down tightly on Sherlock’s prick. Sherlock wails and mutters something unintelligible against his gag, but John just rides him harder.

“OH! OH, that’s it! That’s it! Mmm, love, you can do it, you can do it, _let go, let go…”_ And with that, John reaches down as low as he can, until his fingers find where the plug is nestled snugly between Sherlock’s cheeks. He flicks the switch on, and the vibrations spring to life.

If he thought Sherlock was being loud before, well, John is forced to admit he was sorely mistaken. The sound he makes as the vibrations in his arse begin to work in tandem with John’s ministrations on his cock is so unearthly, John absently prays that Mrs. Turner is out for the night, or else he’s fairly certain they’ll be getting another unsolicited house call.

“HNGH!” All of a sudden, Sherlock’s eyes fly open wide, and John can feel the telltale tremor make its way through Sherlock’s body. He was about to come.

“Do it! Do it! Come! NOW!” The second John barks out the command, Sherlock completely loses control. He flails against his bindings, gnashing his teeth frantically against his gag, and slams his eyes shut. His head falls back, and then John feels his cock throb demandingly inside of him. “OH! YES, love, yeah, that’s it, that’s it, let it all out, mmmm, yes! Ohhhh, love, there we go, so good for me, so good, that’s it now, ohhhh…”

Eventually, John can feel Sherlock’s prick cease its twitching inside of him. He slows his movements, then reaches down to grab the base and gently unseats himself. He winces at the uncomfortable feeling of wet openness, but he ignores it for now and simply turns around and reaches between Sherlock’s legs to flick off the vibrating plug. Then he delicately rolls off the condom before raising his head to press a gentle kiss onto Sherlock’s trembling lips, the leather belt slick with saliva between them. With that, he turns and makes his way to the loo.

He ties off the condom and bins it, then wets a flannel with warm water and wipes off his abdomen, cock, and between his cheeks. He’s sore-- he’ll definitely be feeling it tomorrow, but having Sherlock wear a condom saves him from the more unsavoury bits of clean-up; Sherlock’s love of being made messy with come was _not_ shared by John, and they’d quickly come to the agreement that Sherlock would wear a condom when topping, so as not to trigger John’s squeamishness on the matter. It was so odd, John thinks to himself, that filling up Sherlock with innumerable loads and then playing with the mess in his arse turned John on to no end, but the thought of having a single load in his own arse struck him as distasteful, to put it mildly. It was apparently just one of those things…

With a shrug, he tosses the flannel in the hamper, then turns to put the stopper in the tub. He pours in a bit of lavender bubble bath, flicks the taps on, and pads back to the bedroom.

He wasn’t sure what exactly he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t to see Sherlock sobbing his eyes out, wails muffled around the gag in his mouth, shoulders shaking with the effort of it.

 _“Shit.”_ He says it more to himself than anyone else, and in three quick strides, he’s standing before him, untethering the belt from the back of the chair and pulling the leather from between Sherlock’s trembling lips. “Love, are you alright? Are you hurt? Talk to me, please…”

Sherlock shakes his head and sniffles miserably as another sob wracks his body. “‘M okay, ‘m okay, John, _John,_ I love you, I love you, I love you…”

John crouches down and wraps his arms around Sherlock, doing his best to suss out exactly what was going on here. “I love you too, sweetheart. Are these happy tears, then?” Sometimes following particularly intense sessions, Sherlock would become overwhelmed with emotion, having let his defenses be utterly obliterated in the process of submitting to John. John had learned over the years that this could result in any number of seemingly inappropriate responses, from hysterical laughter to uncontrollable tears.

Sherlock nods miserably. “Y-y-yes, s-sorry, John, happy tears, these are happy, I’m good, ‘m good…”

John breathes a sigh of relief, then rises to press a kiss to Sherlock’s sweat-soaked forehead. “Okay, love, I’m glad. You just go ahead and cry it out, alright? I’ve got you.”

Sherlock nods and dissolves into another wave of tears, and John bends and slowly begins to release the ties on his bindings. He massages each arm and leg as he frees it, checking to make sure blood flow was unimpeded and there were no signs of damage. He can tell Sherlock will be quite bruised from the ordeal, but hell-- that’s a huge turn-on for them both, so no objections there.

By the time he’s loosened the ropes around Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock has gone so boneless that he slumps forward into John’s arms. John raises him unsteadily to his feet, pulling the belt from around his neck and dropping it to the floor before guiding Sherlock to the bathroom and helping him into the now-full tub.

“Hang on, love, before you sit down, will you bend over for me?” Sherlock complies thoughtlessly, and John reaches between his cheeks to extract the plug, setting it aside on the edge of the sink (and doing his best to ignore the tingling in his groin as he watches a trickle of come leak from Sherlock’s open hole). “Okay, there we go, just sit down now, that’s it…” Sherlock sinks gracefully beneath the bubbling foam, and John steps in and maneuvers to sit behind him, pulling Sherlock towards him so that his back is resting on John’s chest. John wraps his arms around him, and presses a firm kiss to the side of his neck.

Sherlock’s sobs have all but subsided, dissolving into quiet, wet whimpers. John occupies himself running his hands all over Sherlock’s exposed skin, admiring the places where the rope has chafed against the porcelain planes, leaving them raw and red and blooming in irritation. Christ, Sherlock would be a _vision_ in the morning…

“Sorry about that.” Out of nowhere, Sherlock’s voice is a low rumble against John’s chest.

“Mmm. About what?” He raises his hands to card them through Sherlock’s ringlets, and Sherlock leans into his touch.

“The crying. Must have startled you.”

John lets out a lighthearted chuckle. “Nah, you just like checking to make sure I’m paying attention, right? Can’t let me out of your sight for a minute.”

Sherlock lets out a wet laugh, but it’s bright and honest and makes John feel warm and tingly inside. “I just… I mean, fuck, John, I don’t know what the hell all that was about, but it was bloody magnificent.”

“Mmm, you liked it, hmm?” John grabs a handful of bubbles and absently begins fashioning Sherlock’s hair into a wet, soapy mohawk.

“Grappling? Rough sex? Crawling? Bondage? Think you just went through a checklist of my favourite things…”

“Glad to hear you enjoyed yourself, love. Wanted to treat you tonight.”

Sherlock’s head lolls lazily back onto John’s shoulder, and they finally make eye contact. John grins down at him, trying not to smirk at the ridiculous hairstyle he’s fashioned atop Sherlock’s head. “Thank you, John. It was perfect.”

John presses a chaste kiss to his cheek. “It was perfect for me, too, sweetheart. You were so good for me.”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut, and John resumes running his fingers through his hair, this time slicking it back away from his cherubic face. Sherlock sighs contentedly, relaxing further into John’s embrace. “Where… where the hell did you learn to do that thing with the wand?”

John snickers. “Did a little self-exploration on my own time.”

“Mmm. Does it… I mean, can you get off with… anything bigger?”

“Nah. Seems my body just… doesn’t work like that. Sorry.”

Sherlock gives a half-hearted shrug and snuggles up impossibly closer. “Don’t be, just feel sorry for you, is all. Coming on a cock is the best damn feeling in the world.”

John barks out a laugh. “See, that’s where you’re sorely mistaken. You may be some sort of supergenius, but the best damn feeling in the world is coming with my cock in your arse. Bloody transcendent, that…”

Sherlock snorts. “Agree to disagree, then.”

“Alas, it seems we remain at odds on that topic.”

“Pity.”

“Shame.”

“Indeed.”

Their snickers subside, and they lapse into companionable silence. After a while, John props Sherlock up into a sitting position and washes down his body as Sherlock practically _purrs_ in satisfaction. Then he drains the tub, towels them off, makes Sherlock down a full glass of water, then has Sherlock lie face-down on the bed while John thoroughly massages his body with arnica cream, in the futile hope that it may minimise the bruising. By the time he’s finished, Sherlock is nearly delirious, muttering incoherently as John tucks the duvent around them and pulls Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock burrows into the crook of John’s neck, holding him tight, and together, they breathe each other in.

************************

“Morning, sleepyhead.” John makes his way into the bedroom carrying a plate laden with piping hot scones. Sherlock remains an immobile lump beneath the duvet.

“Sherlock, time to get up. It’s nearly eleven, love, come on now…” The only response he gets is an indignant _harumph._

“Mrs. Hudson made scones.” And there, that’s the magic word: Sherlock sits bolt upright, hair sticking in every direction, blinking owlishly at John. 

“Lemon poppyseed?”

“Mmmhmm.” John perches himself on the edge of the bed and sticks the plate under Sherlock’s nose. He doesn’t normally allow eating in bed, but this morning, he’s feeling rather indulgent.

Sherlock picks up a scone and devours it like he hasn’t seen food in a week. John does his best not to roll his eyes.

“D’sh’brng Rsy bck?”

“Swallow, please, Sherlock, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“Did she bring Rosie back?”

“No, she’s still downstairs. Mrs. H just dropped these off and made a rather thinly-veiled innuendo about you needing some extra sustenance this morning. I think we may have been a little… um, loud last night.” He can feel his cheeks burning as he says it, but Sherlock remains, as ever, entirely unaffected by shame.

“That was thoughtful.” Sherlock picks up another scone and then turns to grab his mobile off the nightstand, where John had _graciously_ placed it following his standard post-session hazmat clean-up that morning. Sherlocks eyebrows rise nearly off his forehead, and then he begins to type furiously into the screen.

“What’s up?” John leans over to try and read what Sherlock’s writing.

“Seems Aaron had a very good night last night as well.”

“That so? Did he pull?”

“He had a threesome.”

“He WHAT? He told you that?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Sherlock angles his phone so that John can see the message.

To his chagrin, it’s just a long string of emojis. John squints down at them, trying to make sense of any of it… Though he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that Sherlock and Aaron communicate in emojis, cryptography nerds, the both of them…

“I’ve no idea how you arrived at that conclusion, Sherlock. From what I can tell, he had three excellent eggplants, which he’s rated with a 100 symbol and five gold stars, plus a high five symbol and a drooling smiley face. Perhaps he just had some particularly delicious eggplant parmesan.” He can barely get out the words with a straight face, and Sherlock dissolves into a fit of giggles.

“Oh my _God,_ what a bastard.” Sherlock resumes typing back to Aaron, his face glowing with glee as a response comes in. “They were _both_ former military, too. I swear, the talent Aaron pulls is unbelievable…”

John clears his throat and shifts a little uncomfortably. He’d wanted to put off this conversation for a day or two, but perhaps it’s best they get it out in the open now.

“So, um, about last night.”

“Mmm?” Sherlock’s eyes don’t leave the screen.

“The… the stuff with Aaron. How… how did you feel about that?”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock instantly puts his phone aside, his face growing solemn. He looks back at John, expression open and sure. “It was good. It was really, _really_ good, John. I won’t lie, it caught me… a bit off-guard. I know we’d had plenty of negotiations about whether there was any way to incorporate that dynamic into our relationship, but it seemed we’d reached an impasse due to the lack of third-party consent.”

John nods, and takes a deep breath. “I know. But last night at the bar, Aaron approached me and basically told me he knew… what we’d, um, been up to, that night we led him on. And then he said that as long as we were honest with him… we had his consent. To… um, to use him to make me jealous, so we could… do, uh, what we do.”

Sherlock bites his lip, looking a bit uncertain. “How much does he know?”

John shakes his head. “No more than what he deduced based on our previous interaction. Just that we both get off on the jealousy thing. Nothing… nothing about any of this.” He reaches out to run his fingers lightly over the bruises criss-crossing their way up Sherlock’s forearm.

Sherlock looks slightly reassured. “Okay. Okay, then. In that case… I liked it a lot, John. It was good for me. And it seems like it was good for you, and for Aaron, too.”

John takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. “That’s a good thing, then. Everyone gave their consent, everyone got what they wanted, and no one got hurt. That means we did it right, Sherlock. We got it right.”

Sherlock nods, pressing his lips together. He seems a bit lost in thought.

John makes himself continue; there are still a few loose ends that should be tied up. “Is that… is that something you’d like to do again?”

Sherlock hesitates for a long time, and John’s heart feels like it’s migrated to his throat. Finally, he speaks. “I want to do it again, but I need to talk to Aaron first. I have to make sure this doesn’t impact our friendship. He’s… well, you know I don’t have many friends, and he’s one of them, so if there’s a chance this could come between us… it wouldn’t be worth it.”

John does his best to ignore the faint twist of disappointment deep in his gut; he knows Sherlock is right-- his friendship with Aaron was more important than John’s particular sexual proclivities towards jealousy. He needed to prioritise accordingly. “Of course, Sherlock. Talk it over with him. Let me know what you decide. And just to be clear, I don’t want this to become anything more than what we had last night: touching above the waist, no kissing on the lips, and only in my presence and with my explicit permission. I have no interest in involving a third party in our sex life beyond that.”

Sherlock nods earnestly. “Agreed.”

John gives him a tight smile. “Good.”

Sherlock smiles back. “Good.”

John reaches forward, and pulls him into a kiss. As they break apart, Sherlock lets the duvet fall from his shoulders for the first time since he woke up.

And Jesus Christ, he is _beautiful._

The ropes from the _Kinbaku_ had done a number on his sensitive skin, leaving deep aubergine tracks where they’d been placed. The pale flesh around Sherlock’s neck is mottled with deep bruises from the belt, and John can only imagine the state of his hole, from where it had been stretched so beautifully around the plug. 

He’s suddenly finding it very hard to breathe.

Sherlock tips his head appraisingly to the side, displaying his bruised neck with John’s dog tags hanging seductively around it, a wicked grin playing at the corners of his lips. “You like what you see, Captain? Look what you’ve done to me...”

 _“Fuck,_ Sherlock…”

Sherlock flings the duvet to the foot of the bed, revealing the rest of his ravaged form before sinking back into the pillows and parting his legs in a wanton display of greed. “Come on, then. I think we’d best convince Mrs. H that you’ve made me earn another batch of scones.”

John shakes his head, and pounces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, leave comments, suggestions, rants, raves, I love it all!
> 
> I'm working on a short little one-off for the holidays, then back to the drama in the new year. Let me know what you want to see...

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for your patience during that uncharacteristically long break between installments. There was an unexpected death in my family, and I’m trying really hard to return to ‘normal,’ but ‘normal’ becomes a rather relative term in situations like this. But writing here is a part of who I am, it’s a form of self-expression, it’s a much-needed release, and I know a part of healing is making myself sit down and just _write._ So thanks for sticking with me. Thanks for being a part of this community. I’ll do my best not to let you down.


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